


how the mighty fall (in love)

by cosmonaught



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:30:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmonaught/pseuds/cosmonaught
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So picture this: it’s 2007, Dean just sold his soul, and the brothers Winchester are hunting what they think is a vengeful spirit when Dean gets kidnapped, and they realize just how deep their codependence runs. In the aftermath, Sam and Dean deal with things the only way they know how (i.e <i>very poorly</i>). Then Dean goes to hell, things get messy, Sam thinks Dean's forgotten all about their night together…couple that with a case that ends up spanning half a decade, the most epic crossroads in the nation, a smattering of reoccurring characters, and you’ve got yourself a story for the ages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> i signed up for the spn-j2-bigbang planning to write an entirely different story, but then FOB came back and, lo and behold, one of their songs had a lyric that matched the title of an unfinished story that i’d begun drafting when i first started watching the show. i took it as a sign.
> 
> takiai5jalka made some wonderful artwork for this story. [go check it out!](http://takiai5jalka.livejournal.com/3323.html)  
> the PDF file can be downloaded [here](http://www.mediafire.com/view/sz95lwypt3egnpl/how_the_mighty_fall_\(in_love\).pdf).  
> many many many thanks to sailoreyes67 and alienass for the beta! sleepypercy's help was invaluable as always.  
> full acknowledgements are [here](http://cosmo-naught.livejournal.com/3921.html#cutid1).  
> original postdate 08.06.13

 

The smell of incense fills the air.  
  
The girls here are all young and gorgeous, and you know you're going to have to pay a pretty penny to get one of them in bed with you. But your wife's about to leave you (for cheating on her, no less) and you've been without sex for a week. You have  _needs._  
  
One of the girls walks up to you. She's dressed in a scrap of material that barely counts as clothing, and that's not your kind of thing. But the girl in the corner? She's not a girl. She's a woman. And that's  _definitely_  your kind of thing.  
  
She notices you looking at her and throws you a knowing smile; beckons you with a wave of her hand. You walk over, vaguely helpless. She's beautiful. Her eyes sparkle up at you. Her clothes look painted on and—swear to God—she's got legs up to her chin.  
  
She smiles at you. "Hey, handsome. See something you like?"  
  
You smile back with what you hope is something resembling suave and debonair. "Oh, absolutely. What's your name, gorgeous?"  
  
"I'm Karma," she answers, "But you can call me anything you like, dollface."  
  
That night, you call her SOMEONE HELP ME as she slits your throat.


	2. one

Dean glances over at Sam, who is sitting on his bed with his computer on his lap, surrounded by tomes upon tomes of books and sighs. "Sam, if this is another one of those stories about reverse Mormonism, I swear to God I'm going to shove—"  
  
"That was one time," Sam interrupts, indignant. "And no, it's not that. I think we might have a case."  
  
"Yeah?" Dean sits up, swinging his boots off the table. "Let's hear it, then."  
  
Sam moves aside as Dean walks over, and Dean pretends he doesn't see the books open to pages about Lilith and crossroads and demon deals. He shifts some of the books to the side and sits down, pulling the laptop closer and clicking through the tabs. The sheer amount of them is staggering; Dean doesn't know how Sam can keep all these pages straight and not be able to find his toothbrush in the morning—although that may or may not be because Dean hides it.  
  
Sam's already catalogued the tabs by type, so Dean mouses over the ones that are from news sites. All the articles are of unsolved murders: five males, each with their throat slashed so deep that the bone shows, and Dean wishes that were an exaggeration.  
  
But other than that, the killings are in four different states—with the youngest victim being twenty-one, the oldest sixty-four. Dean doesn't quite see the connection, so he tells Sam as much.  
  
"I don't see the connection."  
  
Immediately, Sam starts fucking  _glowing_ , which Dean usually never takes as a good sign, but upon closer inspection and consideration of the slow grin spreading across Sam's face, Dean realizes this is his brother's post-research coital glow.  
  
"Okay," Sam starts, and Dean braces himself for nerd-impact, "I did some research and they all live in places located in Arizona, Utah, Colorado, or New Mexico."

"So?"  
  
"So, those are the four states located at the quadripoint in the Southwestern United States where the corners of those states meet!" Sam is getting really excited now, waving his hands and gesturing rather unnecessarily, "I think we should go there—see what we can dig up. It's the only place in the country where four states meet, so they call it Four Corners. It's, like, the most epic crossroads ever—there's a monument marking it and everything! It also happens to mark the boundary between the Ute and Nava—"  
  
"God, Sammy, okay!" Dean interrupts, unable to take anymore of the info-vomit. "We'll go, if it means that much to you," he adds, barely hiding a grin when he sees his brother's face light up.  
  
"Thanks—"  
  
Dean cuts him off again. "Before you thank me, I've got one condition."  
  
"Anything," Sam promises as he's throwing things into duffels.  
  
"You can't complain about my music," Dean says as they head towards the car. "No telling me to turn it down, change tracks, nothin'. Got it?"  
  
Sam nods as they open the doors and slide in. Dean grins, triumphant, and cranks up the volume.

**\+ + +**

Sam is starting to show physical signs of distress over Billy Gibbons wailing out of the Impala's speakers despite Dean adjusting the volume after the third hour—hey, he does care!—so they stop at some no-name motel after only about seven hours of travel. Sam stands outside the car and tries to get his head to stop pounding as Dean goes into the office to get them a room.  
  
He emerges moments later, proudly displaying a tarnished silver key before throwing it in Sam's general direction. "Got us a discount, Sammy. Clerk wasn't even a chick!"  
  
Sam snorts as he catches it—the clerk is a distinctly sleazy-looking guy with a bad combover and an inability to stop looking at Dean's ass. "Better check the room for hidden cameras, then."  
  
Dean frowns at him. "Why? S'not like he—" Sam can literally see the lightbulb go off in his head, and laughs at Dean's instantaneous scowl. "Why do they always think we're gay? Jesus, people are pervs."  
  
Sam opens the door. "You're one to talk."  
  
Dean grabs their duffels and steps over the threshold. "Bitch."  
  
"Jerk," Sam replies easily, and knocks Dean into the doorway as he pushes past him into the room. He's feeling a lot better.

**\+ + +**

They've set up their things and Sam's been happily clicking away while Dean shoots freethrows with wads of paper and garbage into the wastebasket from different places around the room. Soon Sam makes an excited noise and turns his laptop around to show Dean.  
  
"Look. Look at this," he says, practically bouncing in his seat. "I was going through the victims' financials, and they all made payments within the last few months to this weird offshore account somewhere in the Caymans—not important. Anyway, I traced it all back to a place called The Dovetail Bar."  
  
Dean sinks his last shot perfectly and allows himself a celebratory fist pump before turning his full attention to his brother, only to find Sam looking at him with a highly amused expression. He clears his throat. "The Dovetail? I think I might've picked up a chick there once." He rubs his jaw, wondering how Sam manages to get so excited over doing research. "Turns out she was friends with the owner. Told me he was struggling and she was gonna buy it from him."  
  
"Yeaaah," Sam says as he scrolls and clicks some more, ending up on a very shady-looking webpage. "It's a—wow—it's an underground brothel now."  
  
"A whorehouse?" Dean perks up. "Sammy, this case just got a hell of a lot more interesting. Tell you what, why don't I look her up and give her a call."  
  
Sam nods. "Sure. You still remember her name? I'm impressed."  
  
"She was hot; of course I do," Dean scoffs. "Her name was Branson. Rebecca Branson," he declares, confidently, and reaches for the yellow pages and a phone.  
  
Ten-and-a-half Rebecca Bransons later, Dean covers the mouthpiece and pulls his ear away from a particularly heated rant about female oppression and depravity; mouths at Sam that  _maybe her name wasn't Branson_  and winces when the phone screeches, "ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?"  
  
Dean hangs up. "Let's just go to the damn bar tomorrow."  
  
Sam laughs. Dean scowls. Rebecca Bransons numbers eleven through thirty get crossed off the list.

**\+ + +**

Sam crashes through the door of their hotel room, clutching bags of breakfast, a newspaper, and balancing coffee precariously on his arm. He tosses one of the bags in Dean's general direction, sits down, and shrugs his jacket off before handing him a cup of coffee. Dean gratefully takes a gulp and promptly chokes on the froth and taste of sugar.  
  
"What the fuck is this shit?" He asks, coughing and looking up to glare at his brother.  
  
"Sorry," Sam is sporting a rather impressive grimace on his face as well, "The barista probably got the cups mixed up."  
  
"Must've been distracted by your incredibly girly coffee order, Samantha," Dean gripes as they exchange drinks, "No self-respecting man drinks 'half-caf, double vanilla lattes at 140' and asks for extra coffee after taking a single sip."  
  
Sam's eyebrows have receded into his hairline at this point; fork paused halfway to his mouth. "How do you know—"  
  
Dean cuts him off with a wave of his hand and grabs for the newspaper, taking a bite out of his eggs as he does so. "Look, they found a body." He chews and swallows. "Charles Wright, fifty. Throat slit. No pants." He frowns, peering closer at the photo. "Should've taken the necktie too. I'm pretty sure I saw the same exact color on some roadkill a week back. But if the whole 'no pants' thing is anything to go by, the tie didn't keep him from getting laid. Good on ya, Charlie!"  
  
Sam rolls his eyes and pulls the paper from Dean's hands. "His wife called the police  
when he didn't come home after his business trip ended. Police found jack—no prints, no murder weapon, no evidence at all. Sounds like our guy."  
  
"Fantastic." Dean stands, swallowing the last of his coffee. "Let's go talk to the wife."

**\+ + +**

They pull up to a large, sprawling ranch, complete with token farm animals and the smell of manure. Dean pulls the Impala to a neat stop. Grinning, he passes Sam an ID card and shuts off the engine.  
  
"Showtime."  
  
They walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell. Sam looks appropriately horrified as they pass the lawn gnome and Dean is inclined to agree: the naked thing with its come-hither pose is all manner of horrendously kitschy. Before he can make a comment, however, the door swings open and the owner of the tacky monstrosity leans against the doorframe.  
  
Sam and Dean flash her their badges. "'Scuse us for interrupting, ma'am," Dean says, "I'm Special Agent Schreck, and this is my partner,  _Very_ Special Agent Weine."  
  
Sam digs his elbow into Dean's ribs and he chokes a little on his next breath, but the older woman doesn't notice as she perks up. "Oh, hello, agents," she titters and ushers them in, not even bothering to disguise her roving, appreciative gaze on their backsides. "What can I do for you?"  
  
"We'd just like to ask you a few questions about your late husband, if that's okay with you, Mrs. Wright," Sam explains as they enter her living room and she gestures for them to join her on the couch. Sam hesitates and starts to move towards the recliner, but Dean bumps him from behind, forcing Sam to not-so-gracefully fall on the cushion right next to Mrs. Wright.  
  
"Please, call me Georgia," she insists, laying a hand upon Sam's thigh as she scoots closer.  
  
Dean sniggers at Sam's floored expression, hiding it behind a coughing fit while Sam continues. "Um, okay. So, Mrs— _Georgia_. Your husband—"

" _Ex_ -husband," Georgia interrupts, frowning slightly.  
  
"…Ex-husband; did he often go on business trips?"  
  
"Yes, Agent Weine, he did—or, at least, he did when we were together. You see, Charles and I had been separated for some time now. The papers just hadn't been finalized yet. It's partially why I left him, you know," she says as she starts trailing her hand higher up Sam's leg. "It just—got so  _lonely_  at night, and a woman can only deal with a cold, empty bed for so long before she starts to yearn for something more…"  
  
Sam looks like a dog trying to lay an egg, and Dean can barely contain his amusement as he stands up. "Sorry, uh, Georgia, if you could just direct me to the restroom—"  
  
"Up the stairs and on your left. Next to my bedroom," she adds meaningfully, eyes still on Sam, who is subtly trying to slide away from her.  
  
Dean gives Sam a thumbs-up and a wink from behind her back, receives a spectacular bitchface in return, and heads up the stairs.  
  
He enters Georgia's room and sees a desk across from the dresser, which he assumes to be Charles's. Pulling open the drawers, he notices one at the bottom that's locked. Making quick work of the lock, Dean finds a folder full of files and receipts and photocopies of checks.  
  
Sliding the folder into his jacket, he relocks the drawer and makes his way back downstairs. There's lipstick on Sam's cheek, and Sam has graduated to cowering on the edge of the couch while keeping his pen and pad in front of his face to deter Georgia's advances.  
  
"Agent Weine!" he calls, and Sam's head snaps up (Dean is never going to let him live this down). "No fraternization on the job!"  
  
Sam stands hurriedly, too relieved to even come up with a retort. "Sorry to cut you short, but Agent Schreck and I must be going now," he says as he pries her hand off his upper arm.  
  
Georgia reluctantly lets go and shows them to the door. "If you must," she sighs dramatically, leaning against the doorframe. "But a gal does get so very lonesome sometimes…do come back, won't you?"

Dean flashes her his winningest grin. "I'll be tied up with paperwork back at headquarters, but I'm sure Agent Weine here would be  _more_  than happy to make some time in his busy schedule—"  
  
Sam stomps his heel down on Dean's foot, hard. Dean doubles over in pain and just barely manages not to get his head cut off as Sam slams the door shut.  
  
Dean smirks. "C'mon, Sam. You could've gotten in on some hot cougar action there. I was just tryin' to help—"  
  
Sam turns and glares at Dean. "I hate you."

**\+ + +**

Back at their hotel, Dean pulls out the folder he took and waves it around. "Guess what I found."  
  
Sam pokes his head out from the bathroom, where he'd been busy scrubbing the lipstick off. "What? Please don't tell me you lifted her underwear or anything."  
  
Dean grins. "Why, Sammy, you kinky bastard." Sam scowls. Dean ignores him. "No, I've got financial records. Maybe there's a pattern."  
  
Sam takes the folder from him and flips through the pages. "I don't see anything out of the ordinary." He pulls out a map. "But maybe—"  
  
Dean sits back and watches as Sam draws dots and lines and crosses across the map. Sam opens up his laptop and scrolls through tabs, clicking madly, and turns back to the map to scrawl some numbers and names of places and finally draws one big circle and spirals it inwards. "Seems like he visited this place pretty often," he taps the map, "293 Lenox. Scottsdale."  
  
"That sounds familiar. I think it's—" Dean grabs Sam's laptop and types an address into the box. "Got it! The Dovetail. I guess ol' Georgia wasn't puttin' out for Charlie." He turns back to Sam. "Guess where we're going next!"

"Someplace where  _you're_  the one getting propositioned by fifty-something-year-old cougars, I hope," Sam snipes.  
  
"Aw, don't be like that," Dean replies easily. "Cougars are your thing. I wouldn't touch your territory."

**\+ + +**

They pull into the parking lot of the Dovetail just as the sun is setting. There are already people gathering at the entrance of the establishment, lined up neatly (or neater than Dean's ever seen, anyway) and waiting to get in.  
  
"Well," Sam says as he takes in the glass-windowed, floodlighted establishment. "It sure doesn't look like a brothel. Think we can get around back?"  
  
Dean eyes the wide-set, heavy-built tank of a bouncer at the door apprehensively and shakes his head. "No good, Gigantor. You're outta practice, and that guy's even bigger than you. 'Sides," he adds, noticing Sam's affronted expression, "Too many witnesses."  
  
Sam nods slowly, conceding the point, and hands Dean his tie. "Gear up, Agent Shreck. Time for Plan B."  
  
Dean pushes the piece of fabric back towards Sam, shaking his head. "Sorry, Sammy, but I'm gonna stay out here—keep an eye on my baby. Too many drunk people millin' about with their keys in their hands."  
  
Sam lets out an exasperated sigh. "You just want to 'help' the pretty girls walk to a taxi."  
  
Dean huffs. "Look, we all know you're the one that likes playing emotional footsie with the people. Go be useful."  
  
"While you stay out here and leer at college girls?" Sam crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. "No dice. Try again."  
  
Dean rolls his eyes, reaches over his brother, and opens the side door. "Look, man, if you don't get your pretty little ass out of this car and into that bar right this minute, I will forcibly push you into Ultimate Muscle over there and tell him you want to know if he works out his ponytail."  
  
Sam gets out and shuts the door; sizes the bouncer up one more time and sticks his head back in through the window. "If you do anything that could even be remotely classified as stupid," he threatens, "I'm going to key this car myself."  
"You wouldn't dare."  
  
Sam ignores him and flounces (yes, Dean insists,  _flounces_ ) away.

**\+ + +**

"Nice ride."  
  
Dean looks up, grin at the ready, and his smiles widens when he takes in the sight of the person before him. She's tall, with legs that go on for miles and long dark hair that Dean thinks would look just fine spilling over the edge of a bed.  
  
"Don't I know it," he leans up against his baby's hood and dips his head, acknowledging her comment. "What's your name?"  
  
"Karma," she says. "D'you come here often?"  
  
"I think that's my line," Dean chuckles, "but nah. We're just passing through."  
  
"'We'?" She widens her eyes comically; cranes her neck and makes a show of peering around Dean. "Is the other one your imaginary friend, then?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm Thing One and he's Thing Two. Stick around long enough and you might see a cat with a hat."  
  
She laughs: a pretty, warm sound. "What's your name, Handsome Stranger?"  
  
"It ain't Schwarzenegger, I'll tell you that much. I'm Dean."  
  
"Nice to meet you, Dean."  
  
"Pleasure's all mine," he says. "Speaking of—you here for business or…?"  
  
"Maybe a little bit of both. I like to have fun in more… _adult_  ways." Karma's smile is seductive, and vaguely catlike. "And I'd pay good money to have you in my bedroom."

Dean runs a hand through his hair. "Well, uh, there's always money to be made, isn't there?"  
  
Dean's not sure if he isn't just imagining the slightly predatory tilt to her mouth as she gives him a slow once-over.  "I've had a fortunate year so far."  
  
"Wow, look at you."  
  
Karma's voice is low. "How about yourself? You're a regular Vitruvian Man, dollface."  
  
"I—" Dean pauses, noticing his brother, and shifts reluctantly, making a move to get up.  
  
"Aw, leaving so soon?"  
  
Dean's expression is apologetic. "Yeah, sorry. That's my guy over there," he says and lifts his chin to indicate Sam, who is coming out of the bar.  
  
"Ooh, he's a cutie," Karma coos, before turning back to Dean and dropping her voice back down. "Just remember—I saw you first." she says, and winks before leaving down an alleyway to their right.  
  
Sam walks up, making no indication that he saw Dean talking to Karma. "So while you were out here being useless, I found out that there is indeed a whorehouse here, and that all four vics paid the same girl."  
  
"A hooker to die for, huh?" Dean says. "Maybe we'll come back later when it's a little less crowded."  
  
They hop into the Impala, already bickering about what to eat for dinner. Dean refuses to eat anything remotely healthy today. Sam leaves the door open and snarkily reminds him that he's not getting any younger.  
  
"Or thinner," he adds pointedly.  
  
"Burgers and fries, man. Breakfast of champions."  
  
"You're disgusting."  
  
"Aw, come on, Sammy. I'm adorable."

Sam shakes his head. "Fine, whatever, spike your cholesterol level. See if I care when your organs fail."  
  
Dean cups his crotch protectively. "Not my organs!"  
  
Sam's mouth twitches. Dean sends him his smarmiest grin, reaches over to shut the door, and starts the car.  
  
Just out of sight, Karma slinks out of the shadows, a smile stretching its way across her face.

**\+ + +**

They visit the local police the next day, decked out in full FBI-agent gear. Sam hands Dean a badge as Dean pulls at his tie and makes a face as they walk across the lot towards the red-roofed and stucco-walled building.  
  
"God, Sammy, would it kill the FBI to have some sort of summer uniform? Damned monkey suit's got me feelin' like I'm boiling in my own juices. "  
  
Sam groans inwardly. "I really didn't need that mental image."  
  
"Please. You know I could rock the polo shirt and khaki shorts."  
  
"Seriously, Dean."  
  
"You're just jealous."  
  
"Of what? The fact that you actually own a polo shirt and khaki shorts?"  
  
"That was for an undercover gig! I had to wear the volunteer uniform!"  
  
Sam scoffs. "Bet the nurses loved that."  
  
Dean's expression turns downright lecherous. "Well, there was this one named Rhonda—"  
  
"Can I help you?" A man with graying blond hair and a wide grin cuts in, effectively interrupting Dean. Sam could kiss him.  
  
Dean flashes his badge. "FBI. I'm Agent Schreck; this is Agent Weine. We're looking for the guy in charge."

"That'd be me. Chief James Evans, at your service. Walk with me, boys. What can I do you for?"  
  
Dean steps ahead of Sam, following Evans into the building. "We're here about the recent string of murders. Nothing big, just doin' a little follow-up. You understand."  
  
"Oh, the Four Corners murders. Yeah, the media's havin' a field day with that—folks with their throats slit to the bone, and all they wanna do is sell their damn papers. If the FBI wanna investigate, I'd be happy to help."  
  
It's a welcome relief from the usual hard time they get from the police, and Sam's smile is genuine when he thanks the chief. "The FBI appreciates your cooperation."  
  
"Anything to give those poor folks their peace. Whatever you want—manpower, files, leads—it's not much, but I'll give you everything we've got."

**\+ + +**

She sits on her customary stool at the bar, sipping her drink and eyeing the patrons.  
  
Karma wonders why she hadn't thought of channeling Da Vinci before, but figures that this will make up for it, so long as it's perfect, and then she sees him—tall, late twenties, short close-cropped brown hair and the look of a man that needs release.  
  
Just like Dean.  
  
She waltzes up to him after he leaves his friends to go to the bathroom, and at this point, it's so easy, she almost feels bad, but she needs a canvas for her newest masterpiece.

**\+ + +**

"My daddy taught me everything I know," Karma says casually as she slices from his armpit to his wrist. She can't remember his name—Jason? Jeffrey? Johnny?—but it doesn't matter, because he won't live to correct her.  
  
She kind of regrets that fact, actually. But it's not her fault the human body is so good at bleeding out.  
  
She ignores Andy's (Aaron's?) screams and continues, "Dear old dad. He was a real hands-on kinda guy, y'know? Loved his job so much that he came home and demonstrated exactly what people were willing to do to other people on me." Karma takes his leg and wedges her knife into his thigh, pushing past the resistance of skin and muscle. She gives it a neat slice, nice and deep; revels in the red line that follows the curve of her blade and watches the blood spill neatly down the tarp and funnel into buckets.  
  
She keeps things clean. Blood is a bitch to get out of silk.

**\+ + +**

It's barely daylight, and Sam watches with mild interest as Dean somehow manages to keep his hand under the pillow as he rolls over in his bed, scratches at his stomach, and smacks his lips together before continuing to sleep.  
  
Sam watches him a little while longer before returning his attention to the windows open on his laptop. He's determined to do everything he can to keep his brother from going to hell, and if Sam doesn't make it through, then so be it. What's dead should stay dead, anyway.  
  
Just as he opens up a new tab, the police scanner they lifted crackles to life and announces that there's been another victim—Adam Jain, aged 28, dead as a doornail in his own home.  
  
He pulls a pillow out from behind his back and launches it at his brother's head. Dean's awake in seconds, and chucks it right back at Sam's face.  
  
Sam grins, dodging the feather-filled projectile. "New vic. Get dressed."

**\+ + +**

They get in the Impala and drive to the crime scene, ducking underneath the yellow tape to see officers backing away from the corpse on the floor, and Sam thinks that it's an awful lot of blood for a slice across the throat.  
  
But that's the thing: it  _isn't_  just a slice across the throat, because whatever they're hunting has escalated from a one-stroke kill to full-on slice-and-dice. Adam's arms have been slit from wrist to shoulder, and his legs have been cut vertically from his hip down to his ankles; skin peeled back, nothing but a mess of muscle and tendon and bone on display for all to see. He's been eviscerated—his lower torso is gaping open, and his organs are incredibly clean, as if someone removed and washed them with soap and water before returning them to the cavity.  
  
And it really is an awful lot of blood—so much so that it seems like it's pooled and created a circular shape around the victim. In fact—and Sam learns this the hard way—the carpet is so thoroughly soaked that just walking on the bloodied areas produces a sick wet squelching sound that (despite all he's seen) makes Sam want to hurl.  
  
Dean is just as disgusted. "So I'm guessing 'vengeful spirit' ain't exactly on the list anymore."  
  
"Yeah, the radius is across four states—way too big for any spirit, especially not if it were tied to bones."  
  
Dean sidesteps a tech and crouches down to peer at the gigantic wound in Adam's abdomen. "What if it's something on a person? Like with—remember that reverend's daughter? Lori, or whatever? The chick with the hookman-silver necklace?"  
  
Sam frowns. "Possible, but I highly doubt it. This change in MO is way too drastic for this to be attributed to a vengeful spirit. They kill people, but it's pretty much the same method each time."  
  
"Well, shit. Are we hunting a psychopath or something?"  
  
Sam peels the bloody cover off his shoe, accepting the new one that the forensics tech offers him. "I'm hoping it's 'or something'."  
  
Dean nods, says "Yeah, Sammy, me too," and stands back up, but both of them know it's wishful thinking.

**\+ + +**

They drive back to the motel in relative silence until Dean mentions talking to Karma.  
  
"So this chick I met earlier called me something."  
  
Sam snorts. "Was it 'asshole'?

Dean shakes his head. "Nah. 'Vitruvian Man'."  
  
"That's not something you hear every day."  
  
"I know. Felt like a line out of the Da Vinci Code."  
  
Sam grimaces. "Or something equally as cringe-worthy. Who'd you say called you this?"  
  
"Met her outside the Dovetail—she said her name was Karma. Tell you what, Sammy, why don't I drop you off back at the room. You can have some private time with the books, and I'll see if I can't scrounge up some grub for us. "  
  
"Sounds like a plan," Sam agrees as Dean pulls into the parking space, and he clambers out of the Impala. "Is it too much to ask you not to socialize with the waitresses?"  
  
Dean grins, sending Sam a wink as he reverses out of the space. "Aw, you know I don't sleep on the job. I'll see you later."

**\+ + +**

Dean pulls into the lot of The Dovetail and heads inside. He spots Karma almost immediately, coming from a curtained-off section in the back and heading towards the bar on the arm of a guy who looks like he should be managing 401(k)s somewhere on Wall Street instead. Karma isn't wearing anything special, is still dressed in street clothes, but as she sits down on a barstool he sees the man pass her a sizeable roll of cash and she pecks him on the cheek in thanks as he leaves.  
  
Dean walks up behind her and taps her on the shoulder. "Will that be business or pleasure?"  
  
She turns, practiced smile at the ready, but it morphs into a distinctively delighted expression when she sees his face. "Pleasure  _is_  my business, but in your case, it's customer's choice. Can I help you with anything?"  
  
"You can let me buy you a drink."  
  
"Ooh. Special occasion?"  
  
"I just wanna talk."  
  
Karma grins. "I can do that," she says, turning towards the bartender. "Stan, would you—?" she starts, and grins when he slides a gin and tonic across the counter. She raises her glass and tilts it towards him. "You're the best."  
  
Dean smiles, amused, and asks for a beer. He pops the lid off and takes a sip before setting it back down. "So, what, you're—"  
  
"—A sex worker, yeah," Karma finishes for him and takes a sip of her own drink. "Don't worry about it. Past those front doors, it's a different story, but in here there ain't a cop in sight, and we don't exactly go out of our way to keep things on the DL."  
  
"Sounds like you guys've got a pretty lucrative business here."  
  
Karma inclines her head. "Bex definitely knows what she's doing. I'll give her that."  
  
"Bex? Who's that?"  
  
"Oh—Rebecca," she explains, jerking her chin towards a dark-haired woman near the door. "Rebecca Branson. She's the owner. Bought it from the guy who used to own this place." She stands and almost knocks Dean's bottle over before catching it and placing it back next to his hand. "I'm sorry! Sorry, I just—if you'll excuse me for a moment."

"Sure," Dean shrugs, and takes a long drink as Karma walks off towards what is presumably the bathroom.  
  
He shoots off a text to Sam; types  _man, chicks name WAS branson_  and takes another swig of his beer. But it's weird—Dean definitely feels like he's getting drunker faster than normal. And—yup, his vision's blurring and his heartbeat's in his ears, and suddenly he can feel Karma's body heat radiating at his back.  
  
He throws a punch, but he's so uncoordinated and unsteady that he misses and she blocks him easily. She leans in close and turns to whisper into his ear as he topples off the chair.  
  
"Sweet dreams."

**\+ + +**

Dean comes to, only to find himself shirtless and tied securely to a bed.  
  
"Heya, dollface." Karma grins at him as she saunters in, removing her jacket as she crosses the room. "Sleep well?"  
  
"You soulless bitch," Dean says.  
  
"Oof." She draws a breath sharply through her teeth and mock-frowns as if wounded before turning her attention back to her closet. "That hurts. Now, what d'you think, hmm? Should I go bold or stick with the neutrals?"  
  
"You can go fucking nude for all I care. Untie me."  
  
"What, are ropes too kinky for you?" She laughs and slips her shirt off; singsongs, "What's the safeword?"  
  
"Fuck you," Dean spits, and his restraints quiver with the force it takes to keep him bound.  
  
"Oh, honey, you know you gotta pay for that. It's nothing personal," she says as she folds her shirt up and places it on the bed, "but I don't work for free."  
  
"Cut the crap, Karma. What do you want from me?"  
  
"Isn't it obvious, Dean?" Karma plucks a plain white shirt off a hanger and starts buttoning it up, turning to face him. "I just want you to stop lying to yourself."  
  
"The fuck're you talking about."

"Your boy. ' _Sammy_ '," she says, and Dean tenses. She notices, and her smile is venomous. "Ooh, you didn't like that. Is it just Sam, then?"  
  
"What's he got to do with this," Dean grits out.  
  
Karma's eyes flick towards him. "You look at him like he's your world."

**\+ + +**

  
Sam's eyes snap open at the sound of his phone vibrating and falling off the nightstand. The caller ID reads  _Chief Evans_.  
He sits up and rubs his eyes; clears his throat but his voice is still groggy when he answers the phone. "Hello?"  
  
 _"Agent Weine! I'm sorry if I woke you."_  
  
Sam stifles a yawn and rolls his shoulders back. "Don't worry about it. Did you find something?" Sam looks at their second phone, whose digital face blinks 3:47 AM like a vindictive lover and frowns. Dean's last text was five hours ago, and it had nothing to do with getting food.  
  
 _"Yeah, we—well, you really gotta see this to believe it, Agent. Come down to the station, stat."_  
  
Sam is already half-dressed, balancing the cellphone between his head and shoulder. "Will do. Thanks, Chief," he says, and calls Dean.  
  
He doesn't pick up. Sam leaves a message, one part anger and two parts concern, and floors it all the way to the station.

**\+ + +**

"You're special, Dean, you know that?"  
  
Dean's eyes track Karma as she crosses the room to light a candle and bring it back over, setting it on the nightstand. "I can't quite put my finger on it," she continues, "but there's something about you that reminds me of someone who was very close to me once."  
  
She pauses and huffs a soft laugh. "I mean 'close' in the sexual way, of course. He had the same problem you do."  
  
"Oh yeah?" Dean asks, sneering. "Why don't you share with the class?"  
  
She pinches Dean's cheek. "Aw, how precious. You think I don't know anything. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but you'd die for this Sam of yours, am I right?" Her grin widens as Dean's face darkens. "Yeah. You're the same—too self-sacrificing; too willing to give everything up for the good of others."  
  
She picks the candle up again and flips it, dumping its waxy contents onto his throat and watching it spill down his chest. Dean screams.  
  
Karma watches him, detached. "I hated him."

**\+ + +**

Sam squints at the picture in his hand under the harsh fluorescence of the morgue lights, his eyes stinging from plunging into brightness after he'd been driving in pitch-black.  
  
As his vision refocuses, he almost drops the photo—it's an aerial view of the last crime scene, and the image is unmistakable.  
  
Adam Jain, age 28: spread-eagled, disemboweled and a perfect representation of the Vitruvian Man.

**\+ + +**

"I didn't just kill 'em, you know," Karma says. "Give me some credit, here. I mean, maybe all I did was slit a throat, but I waited for the perfect moment—that moment of give; when our breathing was one, and our hearts beat together…until his stopped, of course."  
  
She tests Dean's restraints, pulling on them as Dean lets out an involuntary grunt. She grins widely at the sound, and cinches them even tighter. "You ever slit a throat, Dean? It's like Christmas. The red is so  _festive._ "  
  
She uses her knife to scrape at the wax on Dean's throat and chest; nicks him carelessly and watches the thin lines of blood as they bead into tiny drops.  
  
"Oops," she says, insincerely, and slices in deeper the next time around. 

**\+ + +**

  
Sam peels out of the station's parking lot and speeds through the streets of Scottsdale, not giving a damn. He's at the Dovetail in minutes, and bangs the door open.  
  
A young, blue-eyed woman with dyed-black hair appears immediately in front of him with a disgruntled look on her face. "Look, I don't know who the fuck gave you the right to go breaking down my door, but it's four in the morning, and we're closed. You have to leave."

Sam flashes his badge. "Are you Rebecca Branson?"  
  
Her eyes narrow. "What's it to you?"  
  
"One of your employees works under the name of 'Karma'. Where is she?"  
  
"I'm not at liberty to say."  
  
Sam tries again. "Miss Branson, my partner is in danger."  
  
"I'm sorry," she says, not sounding at all apologetic, and turns to leave. "I can't help you without a warrant."  
  
Sam's in front of her again in a flash. "Look," he says (and if he's a little angry Sam thinks it's understandable), "I don't have time for this, and if you don't want to cooperate with the FBI, I won't think twice about breaking everything else in your damned bar. Where. Is. She."  
  
Silence.  
  
"Answer me!" Sam roars as he levels his gun, and he's suddenly angrier than he's ever been in his entire life.  
  
Still silence. Sam raises his arm and shoots one of the lights, the sound of glass crashing to the floor almost as satisfying as punching her in the face like he really wants to.  
  
Rebecca shoots him a dirty look. "You better be paying for that."  
  
"Answer the damn question, Branson.  _Where is she?_ "  
  
Rebecca relents. "Her name's Karma Hill. 325 Casper, just outside of Mesa—if you hurt  
my best girl, I swear I'll—"  
  
Sam's smile doesn't reach his eyes as he cuts her off. "If your ' _best girl_ ' hurts my partner, that's the least of your problems."

**\+ + +**

Karma smoothes her hand over the bedspread, toying with the shirt she left there earlier. "I'm not who you really want, Dean," she says. "I was never who you really wanted to spend the night with."  
  
Dean snorts. She brings the flat of the blade up to his face and taps his cheek with it as if punctuating her words. "No, listen. You're all the same—can't have who you want, so you get someone to fabricate that feeling. But you don't really believe you're fucking the person you want to fuck—because you don't pay a girl for sex, you know. You pay her to leave afterwards."  
  
"I—" Dean starts, but Karma doesn't wait for an answer, and proceeds to stuff her shirt into his mouth.  
  
"Shh," she shushes him and tapes a rectangle of duct tape neatly over his mouth. Her smile is a thin sliver of white; unforgiving and razor-sharp. The lamplight flashes menacingly off the edge of her blade.  
  
Dean looks her in the eye, steels his gaze, and waits, bracing himself as she moves closer and—  
  
CRASH!  
  
They're both distracted as the wooden door splinters open with a deafening smash, and Sam towers in the doorway. "Get away from my brother, you bitch."  
  
Karma's face positively lights up, and Dean thinks  _shit_  before she turns and pouts at Sam as if offended, casually ignoring the Taurus aimed at her head.  
  
"You're both just 'bitch' this, 'bitch' that. Didn't anyone ever tell you that words hurt?"  
  
Sam's voice is thunder-dark, and Dean can feel his anger in the air; tension so thick he could choke on it. "You'll be begging to go back to words by the time I'm done with  
you."  
  
Her demeanor changes instantly, voice curling into something black and poisonous and mildly amused. "Oh, will I now? Because I certainly don't think so, Sammy darling."  
  
"Oh yeah? Why is that?" Sam's mouth quirks upward in a smirk, gun still raised, his voice soft and threatening. "Think hard, because the wrong answer wins you nothing but bullets in your brain."  
  
Karma laughs. "I'm a live wire, dollface. Guess no one ever taught you about unpredictable killers, either."  
  
Sam cocks his gun. "The fuck're you talking about."  
  
"You might wanna take a step back," she says, offhandedly, and reveals the matches in her hand before lighting and dropping them onto the floor. Flames leap up almost immediately, and Sam scrambles backwards as he fires off five rounds in quick succession.  
  
Dean hears the sound of glass splintering and Sam cursing up a storm. He's on Dean in seconds, ripping the tape from his face and Dean winces as the adhesive peels what feels like his entire face off.  
  
"Fuck!" Dean spits the shirt out. "That hurt more than I thought it would."  
  
Sam disregards him, frantically cutting the ropes around his hands and feet as the flames climb higher, licking up the curtains and up the legs of the nightstand. "C'mon, man, you gotta—we gotta get out of here, Dean, let's go—" but the fire's spreading, and the door's blocked.  
  
Sam's freaking out, and Dean's not sure if it's because they're trapped or if it's because the prospect of burning alive hits him harder than it used to. But Dean's focused; he's got a goal—reverts back to a state he knows all too well— _take your brother with you; now, Dean, go!._  
  
"Sam," Dean says, and coughs because he hasn't had anything other than beer in what feels like forty hours, "Sam. Window."  
  
There's glass on the floor under the window and there's a rope already hanging out the  
window frame. He can see Sam's shoulders visibly relax and as they climb out they notice a couple of strands of black hair caught in the hinges and waving in the breeze.  
  
They climb down as fast as they can and look for footprints, but Karma's gone—escaped into the desert that is her backyard, no sign of anything but the silhouette of cacti.


	3. two

The fire department's on the scene in seconds, putting out the fire quickly but the entire upstairs is virtually unsalvageable—no leads to be found amidst the carnage and ashes. Bex Branson looks stunned when the police investigate and gives them all the information she has, and a picture gets sent out with the BOLO.  
  
Dean gets butterfly-stitched up, and Sam spends the ride home stewing. He's absolutely livid by the time they get back to the room; slams the door as he exits the car, and now Dean's pissed.  
  
"What the  _fuck_ , man?"  
  
"I cannot  _believe_  you went back to that bar without saying anything. Of all the stupid things—"  
  
"What was I supposed to do, Sam?"  
  
"I don't know, man, maybe  _call me?_ Ask for  _backup?_  Anything but waltz into that damn bar and go looking for Karma yourself!"  
  
"I was just looking for information! She  _drugged_  me!"  
  
"You were off your game!" Sam shouts, getting red in the face, "You've been off your game for weeks—actually, no, it's been  _months,_ Dean! It's been ever since you made that stupid deal with that stupid demon for my stupid life, and all I want is—"  
  
"What?" Dean snaps, cutting him off. "What  _do_  you want from me, Sam? Huh? You want me to say something? Talk about my feelings; tell you the truth? Well, you fuckin' got it, Sammy; I couldn't live without you, okay? And it's stupid and fucked up, but hey, it's the truth, so you got what you fucking wanted, right?"  
  
"Dean—"  
  
"Shut up, Sam. Because I don't care," Dean snarls; can hear himself getting louder and louder as they enter their room, but he can't be bothered to lower his voice. "I don't fucking care! Okay?"  
  
"Fine." Sam says; grinds the word out like it's the only thing keeping him from strangling his brother, and the look on his face could kill at long-range, but Dean's about a million miles past caring, and he's not turning back anytime soon.  
  
" _Fine_ ," he snaps back; slams the door, hard; glares right back at Sam. He doesn't notice that they're getting closer and closer until—somehow—Sam's in Dean's space, or the other way around, and they're kissing.  
  
He has no idea who made the first move—decides to blame Sam either way—and Dean's mind is still on Hell; still focused on hanging on to every piece of Sam he can before the hounds drag him down, and he blames that as well for the way he just lets this happen.  
  
And at this point, Dean forces himself to stop and think—maybe he should be worried—but he's having a hell of a time trying to focus, what with Sam licking into his mouth and attempting to swallow him.  
  
It's the worst kiss Dean's had in a long time, and their teeth clack together the way cheap plastic snaps but it's hot and wet and desperate, and Sam keeps making these noises in the back of his throat like dying. Dean decides he can't get enough of Sam's body against his, so he runs his hands obsessively over Sam's back and slides his hands up and across the expanse of his chest, fisting Sam's shirt in his hands and pulling him closer.  
  
"Fuck, Dean."  
  
Dean elects to divert his attention from Sam's mouth to his neck, and Sam groans, tilting his head and pressing inwards. He pins Dean to the wall; slides his thigh between Dean's leg like it belongs there, and Dean's inclined to agree. Sam works at Dean's belt, unbuckling it, and Dean reciprocates the action with every intention of getting them both naked and onto the bed as soon as possible.  
  
"Look at that," Dean says, voice low. "Fuckin' gorgeous,  _fuck_  yeah. And it's all for me, ain't that right?"  
  
"Yes," Sam pants, "yes, yes, yes, Dean." And Dean takes it as permission to flip Sam onto the bed and crawl up towards his head.  
  
Sam's mouth opens immediately; obediently, but Dean holds Sam's head down and paints precome around his mouth, watching Sam flutter his eyelids as he struggles against Dean's hand and tries to catch him in his mouth.  
  
"Fucking tease," Sam gripes; blows air at Dean's dick and it sends shivers up his spine. "You cocksucking motherfucking asshole—" and Dean lets go of Sam's head and his brother nuzzles the shaft of Dean's dick immediately; wraps his fingers around and ghosts his hand down. Sam's hands are calloused and fucking huge and radiating heat and Dean shivers; turns hotter; it's a fucking paradox; Sam's rendered him nothing but a literary device and Dean couldn't care less.  
  
He pokes his dick between Sam's lips, and Sam latches on greedily; starts to suck; grins mischievously and hums as Dean feeds him his dick until suddenly Sam's nose is in his crotch and Dean finds out, rather quickly, that nothing satisfies quite like having his brother swallowing convulsively around his dick.  
  
He wonders, briefly, where his brother learned to deep-throat like this, but once he thrusts experimentally and feels Sam take it like a fucking  _pro_ , he decides he doesn't want to know, nor does he care. Dean can't keep from pushing into Sam's hot wet mouth; heat curling like smoke up through his chest as his entire body rolls and his toes curl.  
  
Sam moans like Dean's the best thing he's ever tasted; reaches for his own leaking cock but Dean smacks his hand away and takes his dick out of Sam's saliva-filled mouth with a messy wet pop. "Much as I'd like to shoot straight down your throat and have you drown in my come and choke on my cock," he informs him, "I wanna fuck you more." Sam positively whines.  
  
"Jesus, Dean." Sam says breathlessly. The strand of saliva connecting his mouth to Dean's dick breaks as he licks his lips, and Dean feels his dick twitch at the sight. "Okay."  
  
Dean grins, moves backwards towards the end of the bed and Sam kicks his boots off, shimmying his jeans down around his ankles and wriggling clumsily out of them as he helps Dean out of his shirt. They tumble across the bed together, not so much kissing as trying to get inside each other's skin.

"Gonna do it, Dean?" Sam asks, biting kisses down Dean's chest and only stopping to toy with the amulet as Dean reaches over him to fumble the complimentary lube out of the nightstand. "Are you?" he asks again and starts a slow, leisurely grinding of his hips upwards into Dean's crotch. "Gonna fuck me through the mattress?"  
  
"I'll pound you and this headboard into the next room," Dean growls, ripping the packet open with his teeth and coating his fingers with it. "Christ, Sammy. You gonna let me?"  
  
"Y-yes," Sam stutters, choked off by the introduction of Dean's finger in his ass, keeps breathing "yes, yes, yes," and Dean delights in the effect it has on his brother.  
  
"Come on, come on," Dean mutters as he thrusts the finger in and out and watches Sam move backwards onto his hand. "Fuckin'—yeah, fuck yourself on them, so fuckin' hot."  
  
"I," Sam gasps out, rolling his hips and practically crying as Dean sticks another finger in and starts pushing deeper, crooking his fingers. "I—Dean—I want—."  
  
"Damn straight, you do," Dean says, and removes his hand to slick his dick up before pushing the head of it into Sam's ass.  
  
"Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh fuck," Sam mumbles, strung out with his face in Dean's shoulder and shuddering against him. Dean keeps his hands clamped to Sam's hips; leaves bruises on purpose.  
  
Dean stops mid-thrust, turning to kiss his sweaty forehead. "Yeah? You good?"  
  
Sam nods; begs, "Please, please do it, do it, fuckin' do it, Dean, need you in me—" and that's all the encouragement Dean needs before he slams home, and Sam arches his back and screams.  
  
He looks so blissed out, Dean's almost jealous. "Jesus fuck, the look on your face—you have no idea," he says, and barely recognizes his own voice.  
  
Then Dean feels the muscle clench so tightly it hurts; screws his hips counterclockwise to Sam's clockwise and his orgasm hits like a freight train; leaves him so dizzy that it takes him a couple tries to curl his hand around Sam's dick.  
  
Sam comes instantly, with a desperate cry that latches in his throat. Dean pulls out, gingerly, and cleans them off with a discarded shirt as he trails a finger around Sam's swollen hole, feeling him shudder and clench reflexively. Sam shifts, oversensitized; curls up around Dean to avoid the wet spot on the side of the bed, and they sleep.

**\+ + +**

It's half-past two when Dean stirs awake, and he snuggles backwards into the warmth of Sam's body before he realizes that it's _Sam's body_.  
  
His eyes fly open; he wrenches himself away from his brother so fast he swears he can feel his skin peeling off along with the—god, there's fucking jizz everywhere, fuck—and flees towards the bathroom so quickly that he skids on the worn motel carpet and trips on a stray pair of jeans; nearly takes a header across the peeling vinyl tiles on the floor.  
  
"Dean?" Sam asks, voice groggy and sleep-rough, and Dean's stupid dick twitches because apparently one incestuous night with his brother is more than enough to turn him into one of Pavlov's dogs.  
  
He takes too long to answer, and he hears Sam rustling the sheets and pulling his pants on. "Dean, what are you doing?" he asks, and his voice is so tentative; so goddamn concerned that Dean feels like stabbing himself in the head and going to hell early.  
  
"Nothing. I'm fine," he says, curtly. "Go back to sleep."  
  
And Sam—stupid, stubborn Sam—gets out of bed and Dean can feel his hair raising and his fingers twitching as Sam comes up behind him and puts a hand onto his shoulder.  
  
Dean jumps; shakes it off and stalks into the bathroom; pretends he doesn't see the look on Sam's face as the door closes with a resounding  _click._

**\+ + +**

Dean starts taking scalding hot showers, trying to burn the ghost of his brother's come out of his skin. He stops looking Sam in the face, stops leaving the bathroom door open, stops watching porn on Sam's laptop.  
  
But he keeps remembering; keeps seeing Sam in his dreams, incoherent and fucked out and gorgeous ( _no, no, stop_ ), and it keeps getting worse.

Dean can't escape Sam, can't stop thinking about him, and when he gets hard, he ignores it for so long that when he finally jacks himself off, he comes so violently it's more punishment than relief. He takes to doing it late at night in the bathroom, because when he comes he bites his arm to keep from saying  _Sam_ , and he always draws blood.  
  
Sam raises an eyebrow when Dean starts wearing long-sleeved shirts in ninety-degree weather (fuck the South and its fucking heat) to hide the scarring from the way he's bitten through his skin.  
  
And he keeps them ridiculously busy on purpose; continuous onslaught of cases and hunting and driving and hunting, so long and so often that Sam passes out at night in the middle of all his research, too tired to try anything.  
  
As much as it hurts to think, Dean figures that if he keeps it up long enough, Sam'll eventually get so pissed off that he leaves, but then again he knows it'll be a long while before that happens.

**\+ + +**

It's Christmas, and Dean opens the door to the room they're staying to find Sam putting up a 'Merry Christmas' sign.  
  
"What's this?"  
  
Sam jumps back from the corner of the room to reveal an old lawn chair with air fresheners for ornaments.  "What do you think? It—it's Christmas."  
  
Dean's shocked, and, quite frankly, a little amazed—not half a day earlier, Sam'd been adamant about not wanting to celebrate this year. "What made you change your mind?"  
  
Sam doesn't respond, and passes him a cup of eggnog instead. "Tell me if you think it needs more kick."  
  
Dean takes a sip, obligingly, and nearly chokes when the thick taste of liquor and dairy mix in an unwelcomingly saccharine and sticky way on his tongue. "Ah, no, I, uh. I think we're good."  
  
"Good. Let's—um. Do Christmas stuff."  
  
They exchange packages, and both huff a short laugh when they realize they each went to the gas mart down the street and wrapped their "gifts" in whatever paper was available—Sam used newspaper; Dean a brown paper bag—and they sit down to watch the game together.  
  
Dean doesn't really pay attention to the game, though, and focuses on the light from the bad TV screen illuminating Sam's face, throwing his profile into bluish-white contrast; watches the play of light as it flickers across his cheekbones and reflects in his eyes.  
  
He thinks about that Christmas, all those years ago, when Sam gave him the amulet because Dad lied and Dad didn't show and Dean felt so guilty taking it; it was supposed to be Dad's, but Sammy held it out to him and wouldn't take no for an answer. So Dean put it on, fully intending to give it back to Dad, but Sammy smiled and nodded, and Dean couldn't bear to take it off again if it meant keeping the smile on his brother's face.  
  
Dean tugs gently at the warm piece of metal hanging on his chest; rubs the bizarre amulet that neither he nor Dad nor Sam have ever been able to find any religious or supernatural meaning for. Sam notices when he glances back over at Dean from the other side of the couch and smiles that same smile that he did, way back when, and Dean suddenly feels like crying.  
  
He fights the urge and lets Sam shift closer on the threadbare, worn-red couch; lets his brother lean on his shoulder and tuck his head under Dean's chin like they used to do in the backseat of the Impala when Dad was driving and looks down as Sam closes his eyes, eyelashes brushing his cheeks and he sighs so deeply Dean thinks maybe he was holding his breath until now.  
  
He drinks the last of the eggnog and turns off the TV before swinging his legs up and curling around Sam, remembering all those hours in the car and all the nights they've spent together and wishing they could lay like this forever; wishing his deal were for fifty years rather than just one.

**\+ + +**

The day his deal is up, Dean finds himself pinned to a table and struggling to breathe. "Sam, that's not Ruby! It's not Ruby!"

Ruby's eyes go white, and her entire expression melts away from Ruby's prickly demeanor; turns into something disconcertingly childlike.  
  
"Score one for the pretty boy." She tilts her head and her smile grows wider as she walks towards Sam, who is pinned to a wall. "I've wanted to meet you for a very long time, Sam."  
  
Dean grunts in pain, fighting against Lilith's invisible restraint, and feels a hot surge of anger when Lilith kisses Sam.  
  
Sam cranes his neck away from her. "Let my brother go."  
  
"Aw, that's not how it works. You gotta have something I want first, and quite frankly, you don't."  
  
"So, this is your big plan?" Dean jeers, "Kill me, then Sam, then, what—become Queen Bitch?"  
  
"That's just the tip of the iceberg, Dean. Too bad you won't be around to see the rest," she says, and whips her head around so quickly the snap of the bones in her neck is masked only by her cry of "Sic 'im, boy!"  
  
Dean feels the panting heat of the invisible hound above his torso and barely has time to brace himself before he's yelling in pain as gashes appear on his chest and legs, feeling his body being ripped to shreds.  
  
Sam watches in horror, screaming "NO! STOP! STOP IT! NO!" and Dean gets flipped onto his stomach; watches himself bleed out onto the floor.

**\+ + +**

When Dean goes to Hell, the first thing he says is _sam_ , and all he thinks about is  _sammy sam sam sam sammy sam sammy._  
  
Alistair tells him, later on, that he was like that—a broken record—for thirty of his forty years in Hell.

**\+ + +**

Sam goes back to Four Corners, USA; back to the seedy-ass motel with the seedy-ass clerk and stays there for a day, then two, then four—trying to track Karma; trying to finish what he and Dean had started, if only to pay tribute to his brother. But he finds nothing, and Karma's lost in the wind. The house she had held Dean in has since been rebuilt and sold, and all the desert that used to make up the backyard has been fenced off and turned into a pool.  
  
Sam heads to The Dovetail and spends some quality time at the bar getting to know Stan the bartender and his friend Jack Daniels before someone taps his shoulder and sits down on the stool next to him.  
  
"Fancy seeing ya here, seeing as we didn't hit it off all that well last time."  
  
He turns and blinks slowly— _once, twice—_ to focus his vision before he acknowledges her. "You're  _blonde_."  
  
Rebecca laughs softly. "Things change. What brings you back here?"  
  
Sam tries to shrug and take a sip of whiskey at the same time before settling for the latter. "Wha's it look like?"  
  
"Looks like you're getting drunk," Rebecca says and glances at Stan, who holds up two fingers to indicate Sam was only on his third shot.  _Lightweight._  
  
Sam raises his shotglass in mock-toast; dips his head and affirms: "'m gettin'  _drunk._ "  
  
"You didn't look like this when you broke into my bar."  
  
Now Sam's out of practice; his smile is thin and weary like a second skin, but he manages a small laugh. "Things change."  
  
He lets her take him home, but insists on driving the Impala. 

**\+ + +**

Sam stays with Rebecca for three days, and before he leaves, she hands him a Tupperware container filled with something that looks suspiciously like bone dust and glitter.  
  
Sam takes the container and peers into the plastic tub. "Why's there glitter in your bone dust, Bex?"  
  
She looks a little taken aback by the fact that Sam can identify the white powder, but (thankfully) ignores it and offers him a sheepish smile. "There's, uh, actually some salt in there, too. It was a minor mishap with my nephew. He's cute, but he's a little monster. Shouldn't affect it in any way, though."  
  
"Affect what? What's it for?"  
  
"You're gonna think I'm crazy."  
  
Sam chuckles, despite himself. "Trust me, I can do crazy. Try me."  
  
"It's for the crossroads."  
  
Sam stops laughing. "The cross—"  
  
"—look, just bear with me, okay? I'm not—I was never superstitious. But there's this thing. At the Four Corners. The real one, not where the monument is—they were off by about, oh, 1800 feet, give or take. It's not their fault." She flashes him a small grin and continues, "I mean, considering the instruments of their day, they fuckin'  _nailed_  it."  
  
"So, the glittery bone dust is for…?"  
  
"Right, bone dust." Bex says. "So the  _real_  spot, apparently, is like, the most epic crossroads ever. One day I'm transportin' dog bones—don't ask; long story—and my back tire blows! So I get out, and I crunch a bone by accident, and suddenly there's this whisper of a sound,  _just_  under the wind, and it kinda freaks me out. So I throw the spare on, deliver the bones, but  _I can't stop thinking about that whisper_. So I find myself a dead hound—not like  _that_ , I swear; the roadkill kind, I don't get my kicks by cutting up family pets— and take it back to the place. And what d'ya know, I crush some bones and the whisper comes back and the next thing I know I'm layin' down cash for my buddy Chris's bar and life's been sweet ever since."  
  
"How long have you owned the bar?"  
  
"Gotta be at least five years."  
  
Sam frowns a little. He's done enough research on crossroad demons in the last year to think that bone dust isn't their kind of thing, let alone dust that's got salt and glitter spilled into it, but at this point, he's willing to give anything a chance.  
"So, where's this  _real_  Four Corners crossroads?"  
  
"Like I said, it's about 1800 feet east of the monument. Keep walking until you see the lonely cactus—you'll know what I mean. But you gotta go at night, and if you start seeing the moon over the mesas, you've gone too far. It's a bizarre little place. Easy to miss, unless you know what you're looking for."  
  
Sam sticks the Tupperware into his duffel and shoulders the bag, getting into the Impala and rolling the window down. "Hey, Bex!" he calls, and she comes back outside. He motions her closer and presses a stack of bills into her hand. "It's a little late, but I'm sorry for breaking stuff last time."  
  
Bex shakes her head, folding Sam's fingers back around the money. "Aw, don't worry about it. You keep it—I think you need it more than I do. Besides," she quirks her mouth, "this is why I have insurance."  
  
Sam laughs. "Thanks. For everything. I mean it."  
  
She grins and backs away from the car; leans against her porch and waves as Sam backs out of the driveway.

**\+ + +**

It's dark when Sam reaches the spot, and it really  _is_  a bizarre little place like Bex had said. He parks the car a little while away and pulls the Tupperware out of his bag, walking towards the weird flat patch in the middle of the clearing. He crouches down and opens the container, taking a handful of the stuff before deciding that Bex gave him the entire thing for a reason, and dumps the entire thing out.  
  
The salt stays down, but the dust swirls up in a storm of powdered bone and glitter, forcing Sam to close his eyes, and when he opens them again the storm has given way to the glittering image of a woman with a wreath of thorns on her head.  
  
Sam surreptitiously checks that the Colt is still tucked in his waistband and moves his hand to the demon knife. "Who are you?" 

  
She doesn't answer as she continues floating down towards the ground, and Sam notices that he can't make her face out—it's flickering erratically, and despite how much he stares, he can't quite pinpoint an age for her. The woman solidifies as her bare feet touch the earth, and she lands without a sound, giving her dress a perfunctory smooth-down.  
  
"Hmph, glitter. Not my style," she sniffs, "but I'll take it, so long as I get to be something other than just air for once." She looks back up at Sam, her face now set young and pretty, and narrows her eyes. "Why don't you put the knife away, hotshot?"  
  
Sam's fingers tighten around the handle. "I want my question answered first."  
  
"And I've been here too long to take orders from you, so why don't you take a wild guess?" She snaps her fingers, and a flame appears in each hand. "Go on. Hit me with your best shot."  
  
Sam's grin is dangerous. "Don't mind if I do," he drawls, and whips the knife at her. It's a perfect shot; possibly the best of his life—and then the knife slows, mid-air, and drops at her feet.  
  
Sam braces himself for a retaliatory shot that doesn't come, and he lifts his head to see that the woman is twirling his knife and looking incredibly, incredibly bored.  
  
She notices him staring, and tosses his knife back to him. "I don't die that easy, kid."  
  
Sam catches the blade and sheathes it. "You're not going to kill me?"  
  
She rolls her eyes. "Quite frankly, you're not worth my time. Jeez, the Greeks stop worshipping me, and suddenly I don't get any respect anymore."  
  
"You're Greek—?" Sam starts, but doesn't get anywhere before the woman vanishes again, and he shuffles back to the Impala. "Damn it."

**\+ + +**

Fresh with the knowledge of four websites and three library books, Sam heads back to the clearing with the crushed bones of a recently-euthanized dog and spreads them around. The woman comes back—same face, but she's glitter-free this time—and Sam speaks before she can say anything.

"You're  _Hecate._ "  
  
"Someone did their research." She smiles, obviously amused, and mock-curtsies. "Queen of the crossroads, at your service."  
  
"Not just that! You control, like,  _everything._ "  
  
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Samuel Winchester."  
  
"You know who I am?"  
  
"Kind of hard not to. Your brother's arrival in Hell was quite the cause for celebration. The Underworld was wearing earplugs for days."  
  
"So you can tell me what I need to do?"  
  
Her smile fades, and she ages before Sam's eyes. "I was afraid you were going to ask that."  
  
"Please," Sam begs. "I just want my brother back."  
  
"I know." Hecate's voice softens, and her face flickers away; changes into something sad and knowing and much, much older. "I haven't been at full power in many moons, and Lilith is the demon holding Dean's contract. He is beyond my reach. Hell doesn't want to let him go."  
  
"You can't just—you have to—"  
  
"This is not the end, Samuel Winchester. There are other entities, and the skies are always changing.  _This is not the end_."  
  
She disappears into the air, her image dissipating in all directions, and the wind that brushes his cheek is warm like summer; smells of leaves and pumpkin spice.  
  
But Sam trudges back to the Impala, bitterly alone, crying all the same. 

**\+ + +**

That fateful day, that day when Dean accepts the deal and climbs off the rack and takes the blade from Alastair, he starts torturing souls straightaway.  
  
He resigns himself to this fact; stoops this low because  _you fucked Sam_ ,  _you sick son of a bitch; you deserve it just as much as these monsters do_. And they all know about it, too. It had taken thirty years of Alastair chipping away at that very fact, reminding Dean just how much he'd  _enjoyed_  fucking his brother, until the walls finally came tumbling down and Dean accepted that he was no better than the demons surrounding him.  
  
His skin crawls at first, thinking about what he's doing, but then he stops thinking.

**\+ + +**

Dean digs himself out of the ground; emerges in a field where all the trees have fallen in a perfect circle around his grave.  
  
He walks to a gas station; kicks the door open and downs two bottle of water. He feels new, albeit unclean, and finds it bizarre when he looks at himself and doesn't see a single scar.  
  
What's even more bizarre, though, is the handprint on his shoulder and the glass breaking around him with an earsplitting screech.

**\+ + +**

Before Bobby tells him that it's been a tough four months without him around, Dean gets welcomed with a flask of holy water in the face.  
  
He laughs, despite himself. It feels like home.

**\+ + +**

Sam's first instinct may have been to attack, but he forgets all about Ruby when he sees Dean. He's overjoyed; crazy with relief; can't stop grinning as he takes the amulet off and gives it back, smile only getting wider when Dean puts it on and it hangs in its rightful place.  
  
They both cry when they hug, and neither of them say a thing.

**\+ + +**

They summon this thing; what Pamela told them was called 'Castiel' before her eyes were burned out, and Dean feels fear for the first time since leaving Hell when neither rock salt nor Ruby's knife harm him.  
  
Castiel looks highly insulted by the knife protruding from his chest and informs Dean, very primly, "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."

Dean's utterly baffled. "Why'd you do it?"  
  
Castiel looks even more offended, and speaks slower, as if it would make Dean understand. "Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you. Your brother's headed down a dangerous road, Dean."  
  
"Sam?" Dean asks. "Why? Where is he?"  
  
"We're not sure where it leads," Castiel says, ignoring him. "And we don't know Azazel's endgame."  
  
"Where's. Sam."  
  
Castiel pauses, looking at Dean for the first time. "Stop him. Or we will," he says, and presses his fingertips to Dean's forehead.

**\+ + +**

"Where's Lilith?" Sam asks, smooth as silk.  
  
"Kiss my ass," the demon sneers even with his body bound to a chair, and his eyes go black.  
  
Sam smiles beatifically. "I'd watch myself if I were you."  
  
"Hah! Sam Winchester, slutting around with some demon and having the nerve to tell me to  _be careful._  Tell me, Sam—tell me what it was like, failing your brother. Tell me about all the things you and this demon bitch did in the dark."  
  
Sam's smile drops. "You shut your mouth."  
  
"Some hero," the demon sniggers, and keeps laughing even as Sam banishes him back to Hell, the sound of it bouncing off the walls and ringing in Sam's ears.  
  
 _Some hero._  
  
Then—suddenly—Dean appears. "Were you going to tell me about this, Sam?" He asks, fury radiating off of him so palpably that Sam can feel it curling in the air.  
  
Sam fumbles for the words. "Dean, I—I can—"  
  
"What? Explain? You're going to fucking  _explain_  this away?" Dean's laugh is hollow and heartless. "Go ahead and try."  
Sam watches him go and knows his brother doesn't understand; has never been possessed by anything except the urge to stick his dick in the nearest warm body and thinks, bitterly, that he's a whole new level of freak.  
  
Sam's got fucking demon blood in him, for chrissakes, pumping through his veins and changing him—why _not_  milk his powers for all they're worth? Why  _not_  use it to exorcise demons? It's about as close to a  _fuck you, Alastair_ as they'll ever get, even if Dean doesn't agree with him.  
  
Ever since Meg got in, ever since Azazel, Sam's felt something inside him, something dark and irrevocable like the monsters they kill, staining him from the inside out, and so he figures,  _fuck it._ Once Dean wants to listen, Sam'll tell him anything he wants to hear. It's not like Sam will ever be clean, anyway.


	4. three

"You know," Sam says, shortly after Dean deigns to speak to him again. "I met Hecate while you were gone."  
  
"Hecate?" Dean asks, and shudders. "Please don't tell me that's the old witch lady."  
  
Sam's laugh catches him by surprise. "She'd kill you if she heard you call her that."  
  
"What? It's true, isn't it? The whole  _maiden, mother, crone_  thing?"  
  
"Nah," Sam says, automatic response, but he thinks better of it as he leans back against the headboard. "I mean, yeah, it is. Kind of. Her face changes sometimes. But she's not what you'd expect at all."  
  
"That so?"  
  
"Yeah." Sam turns to look at Dean. "I asked her to save you."  
  
Dean looks back, surprised. "You asked the Greek witch goddess to save me?"  
  
"Because she's not just a witch goddess," Sam explains, "she's _magic_. Plus she's got power in a lot of places, and she's big on crossroads."  
  
"Sounds like the kind of chick we're lucky to have on our side."  
  
"She's got some serious juice. Dunno if she's on our side, but she's not gonna kill us, that's for sure." Sam's smile turns rueful. "She couldn't save you, though. And then when I told a crossroads demon I wanted to switch with you, he laughed in my face. Said you were right where they wanted, and that he wouldn't take me. In fact, no one would. Then Ruby came along."  
  
Dean's voice is surprisingly nonchalant as he maneuvers the Impala around a pothole. "And, what? Did she find a loophole in the works? Show you the land over the rainbow?"  
  
Sam shakes his head, even though Dean's not looking. "She saved my life, actually. Got me sober. Taught me everything she knew." He takes a deep breath; enunciates the next sentence as clearly as possible; knows he's testing to see how much Dean remembers. "I slept with her."  
  
The flash of disgusted anger across Dean's face is evident, but it's gone as quickly as it came, and it's not the reaction Sam was looking for. There's no other response, no jealousy accompanying the anger, no heat edging his eyes. Dean, whom Sam's loved for what feels like forever, gives him nothing but mild distaste for Sam's admission.  
  
"So the land over the rainbow was the uncharted territory of her pants, huh, Sam?" Dean says, and flexes his hand on the steering wheel before he pats Sam's thigh. "Look, I appreciate the honesty for a change, but seriously. Too much information."  
  
It's like a knife in his heart. Dean may be upset with Sam, but it's not because he remembers their night together, and Sam feels his face crumple; can't seem to manage any semblance of a mask and doesn't respond when Dean shakes his shoulder.  
  
"Sammy?" He asks, visibly alarmed. "You okay?"  
  
 _NO_ , Sam's head screams at him,  _NO NO NO_ , but Sam pinches the bridge of his nose; manages something resembling a nod and Dean turns back to the road, his doubt written across his face.  
  
And then Sam laughs, sudden and humorless. Dean was all he kept fighting for, the reason why Sam made the choices he did, but Dean doesn't remember anything, and nothing matters anymore.  
  
He turns to his brother. "I'm done with these powers," Sam tells him. "I'm done with everything."  
  
Dean's reaction is nothing short of relieved. "Thank you."  
  
Sam feels nothing. It's the easiest lie he's told in years.

**\+ + +**

Sam's admission—that he slept with Ruby— _kills_  Dean, and Dean wonders what kind of sick sense of humor God has to make him keep wanting his brother like this; like that night; wonders how much it would take to forget if even going to Hell and back couldn't scrub Dean clean.  
  
So he shifts from trying to boil his skin clean in the shower to drowning himself in alcohol. Castiel doesn't much approve of his experiment, and tells him as such, very pointedly.  
  
"Imbibing such copious quantities of alcohol will not, in fact, turn your blood to wine, Dean. So I suggest that you stop trying."  
  
"I'm a stubborn sonuvabitch, Cass, so who knows? Wait around; I might turn out to be Jesus," Dean says, and raises his drink in a toast to the angel, who flies off in a flurry of exasperation and feathers.

**\+ + +**

Dean isn't afraid to torture Alastair so much so as he's scared of how ready he is to do it; so fucking eager to slice and hurt and hack at this demon who strung him to a rack for three decades and taunted him with everything he wasn't and everything he did.  
  
Alastair's laughter is derisive when he sees Dean, and he struggles to get himself under control. "I'm sorry," he says, sounding anything but. "This is a very serious, very emotional situation for you. But did you think I'd see your little torture toys and sing like a canary?"  
  
"Who's killing the angels?" Dean asks. "I want a name."  
  
"Are you looking for redemption, Dean?" Alastair asks. "I carved you into a new shape. There's no going back."  
  
"Maybe you're right," Dean says, and fills a needle with holy water before injecting it directly into Alastair's eye. "But now it's my turn to carve."  
  
Alastair howls in pain and anger, and Dean watches him passively, refilling the syringe and plunging it into the other eye.  
  
"Do you really think this is gonna fix you?" Alastair chokes out, both eyes foaming; boiling in their sockets; crying ichor and black smoke. "Because that's just sad." And despite the two flasks of holy water Dean just plunged into his system, the demon still manages that ringing mocking tone that haunts Dean in his sleep.  
  
Dean shoves it down; locks it away. "Answer the question. Who's killing the angels?"  
  
Alastair shows no sign of having heard him. "It was supposed to be your father, you know. Had him on my rack for close to a century, but John—he was made of somethin' special. And then  _you_  came along." He looks up at Dean and winks; continues hoarsely. "I thought I was gonna have to do it all over again. Set myself up for another hundred years. But daddy's little girl, he broke in thirty. Just not the man your daddy was, huh?"  
  
Dean picks a knife up, douses it in holy water and salt and shoves it down Alastair's throat. The demon screams; gurgles blood and saliva, and Dean removes the blade, wiping it neatly with a cloth.  
  
The bastard coughs like lung cancer; spits fetid phlegm and gore and what looks like pieces of trachea. "He was supposed to bring it on," he gurgles, hoarsely, "But in the end, it was  _you_."  
  
"Bring  _what_  on?" Dean asks.  
  
Alastair's grin is wide and bloody. " _And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell._ "

**\+ + +**

Sam hears what he thinks is Dean, banging frantically on the door. He turns in confusion; can't hear anything over his heartbeat in his ears and then Ruby shakes him, pointing him towards Lilith.  
  
"What are you waiting for?" She shouts. "Now, Sam! Now!"  
  
Lilith laughs, having the time of her life. "Oh, Sam, aren't you just precious? You turned yourself into a freak, and now you're not even gonna bite."  
  
Sam's heartbeat quickens; gets even louder and drowns everything out as he raises his hand and hurls every last drop of his power at Lilith, whose body convulses and glows and goes limp. Sam throws her to the floor, and as his vision and hearing clear he falls to his knees, watching as the blood that pours out of her body pools in a very distinctive circle. "What the hell?"  
  
Ruby is breathless and jubilant. "You did it."  
  
"What?" Sam asks, horrified, "What did I do?"  
  
"You opened the door!" she sings. " _And it is written that the first demon shall be the last seal."_  
  
"You bitch. You lying bitch! Poisoned me with the blood, with your blood—"  
  
Dean bursts through the door, wood splintering everywhere. "You're too late," Ruby tells him.  
  
"I don't care," Dean says, and Sam holds her in place as Dean stabs her through the heart.  
  
"He's coming," Sam says, broken like Ruby's body. "I'm sorry."

**\+ + +**

They whirl through a year of apocalyptic disasters; fend off more angels and more demons, and despite the fact that he carved Enochian sigils into their fucking ribs, Castiel's visits get more and more frequent.  
  
On his next visit, Castiel asks Dean for his amulet, saying that it will burn hot in God's presence. Dean relents, handing it over, and Sam feels part of his soul close up and disappear with the flap of the angel's wings.  
  
Sam leaves after that, telling Dean it's because he can't trust himself, but it's really because Sam knows he'll kill himself if he stays with Dean any longer—Dean, his beautiful older brother, who's been broken since hell; Dean, who looks pretty and talks tough and is always in the corner of Sam's eye, everything Sam's ever wanted and can't have; Dean, who doesn't care and doesn't remember and hasn't forgiven him for Ruby, and hurts Sam like it's second nature.  
  
But Sam lasts no more than a week; comes back to Dean and knows he'll always come back because he's completely, utterly, stupidly gone for his equally-as-stupid older brother.

  
**\+ + +**

  


  
Later on, when Castiel returns the necklace to Dean, he tells him it's worthless and Sam wants to wrap his hands around the angel's neck and squeeze the grace out of him.  
  
But Dean takes it, cradles it in his hand, and Sam thinks back to how they shared their heaven together, like soulmates; feels light and hope and maybe even happiness for the first time in years.  
  
And then Dean—Dean tosses it into the wastebasket without so much as a second thought, and Sam wonders why Dean doesn't just rip Sam's heart out instead.

**\+ + +**

And in the next few months Dean gets reckless and careless and maybe a little sloppy, but he's just  _tired_. So he takes any case that comes their way; jumps in front of Sam at every opportunity and fights the monster a little longer than necessary before stabbing it with whatever blood-caked, Shinto-blessed, sheepskin-covered bamboo stake is needed that week.  
  
Sam notices, of course; always notices because he's always watching Dean and thinks Dean doesn't know, but Sam's kidding himself. Dean taught him every trick he knows and then some, so he sees the inevitable confrontation coming from a mile away; starts bracing himself a week in advance.  
  
"Do you think," Sam says, one evening, "do you think  _maybe_  you could take half a second and stop trying to fucking sacrifice yourself for a change?"  
  
"I don't think so."  
  
"Why not?" Sam asks, and huffs angrily when Dean remains mute. "Dean, seriously. Tell me. I want to know."  
  
Dean, who had prepared a million and one responses, forgets them all and answers him honestly. "Because, Sam. They're gonna turn you. And I don't know whether it's gonna be demon blood or some kinda Ruby three-point-oh or what, but they're gonna find a way, and I just—I don't believe."  
  
"In what?"  
  
"In you."

**\+ + +**

Sam's motionless on the floor, and Dean panics; takes the rings of the Four Horsemen out of his pocket and throws them at the wall. They stick, and Dean reads the Enochian off a slip of paper, the bizarre consonance of syllables sticking like molasses on his tongue.  
  
Sam stirs. "Dean?"  
  
"Sammy!"  
  
"I can feel him," Sam groans, clutching his head. "Oh, god."  
  
Dean helps him stand up. "You have to go, Sam. Go! Now!"  
  
Sam turns towards the gaping hole in the walk and takes a deep, shuddering breath, before he suddenly stops; straightens up and smiles widely as he turns back to face Dean.  
  
"I told you," he sing-songs, "this would always happen in Detroit."

**\+ + +**

Sam's eyes open in a dark room with mirrored walls; realizes with a cold clarity that he can't control his body.  
  
Lucifer flexes Sam's arm; rolls his neck; cracks his knuckles. "I've been waiting for you, Sam," he tells him, staring into the mirror. "We're two halves made whole."  
  
 _You're dead. I'll rip you apart._  
  
"Oh, come now, Sam. You know it's always been me."  
  
 _No, that's not true._  It's always been Dean.  
  
"You've been running towards me your entire life," Lucifer insists. "And now we're finally here. I want you to be happy, Sam."  
  
 _I don't want anything from you._  
  
"No? You sure? Well, I guess precious Deanie-bean's gotta die."  
  
 _Don't touch him._

"Aw, too late," Lucifer pouts, "you missed your chance. But I'll tell you what; I'll cut you some slack—we'll do a fifty-fifty; see how I feel in an hour, yeah? Consider it a homecoming gift."  
  
 _You fucking monster._  
  
"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, you've got it all backwards."  
  
 _Liar._  
  
Lucifer tilts his head; grins wide; shows all of Sam's teeth. "Am I?"  
  
 _Demons lie._  
  
"Yes, but I'm an angel," Lucifer informs him. "Lying goes against my moral code."  
  
 _You don't_ have _a moral code._  
  
Lucifer laughs, and Sam's dimples show. "But I'm still an angel, and that's more than I can say for you."

**\+ + +**

No matter how he hates Lucifer, all Sam can think about is what Dean said, what Dean says, what he's been saying forever.  
  
 _You're a monster._  
  
 _A vampire._  
  
 _A blood-sucking freak._  
  
Sam doesn't want to believe it;  _can't_ —but he knows he will.  
  
 _I don't believe,_ Dean says.  _I don't believe in you._  
  
 _But you're my everything_ , Sam thinks.  _I'm nothing without you._

**\+ + +**

Dean guns the Impala into the middle of the cemetery the only way he knows how: pedal to the metal and blasting Def Leppard with the windows down.  
  
"Sam," he says, "We need to talk."  
  
Lucifer stares. "Dean, don't be stupid. Sammy's long gone."  
  
Michael nods with Adam's steely eyes. "You are not needed here."  
  
"I'm not talking to you, " Dean says, "I'm talking to Sam. But Adam, if you're in there, I am so sorry."  
  
"Adam isn't home right now."  
  
"Well, in that case, you're next on my list for some one-on-one Dean time, sweetcheeks. But right now, I need five minutes with  _I Love Lucy_  over here."  
  
Michael fumes. "Dean, you are no longer the vessel! You've no right to be here!"  
  
"Hey, assbutt!" Castiel appears, Bobby in tow, and hurls a Molotov cocktail at Michael, who bursts into flames.  
  
Lucifer, who has been deadly silent the entire time, speaks. "Castiel. Did you just Molotov my brother with holy fire?"  
  
Castiel shifts nervously. "Uh. No."  
  
"No one fucks with my brother but me," Lucifer says, and snaps his fingers. Castiel bursts in a shower of blood and guts and gore.  
  
Dean can feel the panic edging in. "Sammy, can you hear me?"  
  
"Dean," Lucifer says, "you are rapidly becoming a pain in my ass." and he pinches the bridge of his nose,  _just like Sam_ , Dean thinks, and it gives him hope—  
  
but then Bobby fires, and Lucifer snaps fast like a rattlesnake; twists his hand in a violent gesture and Bobby's neck snaps so loudly Dean hears it echo through the field.  
  
Dean barely has time to scream  _no_  before Lucifer throws him onto the windshield of the Impala, nearly smashing through it, and punches him into the side of the car so hard it leaves a dent in the door the shape of Dean's head.  
  
"Sammy, are you in there?"  
  
"Oh, he's in here all right," Lucifer snarls, punching Dean over and over and over, and Dean can feel the cartilage in his nose snap and his jaw fracturing. "He's gonna feel every snap of your bones, Dean. We're gonna take our time."  
  
Dean's face is so swollen he feels like he's looking through a keyhole, but he holds his hand out to Sam's jacket. Lucifer slams him with another punch, and Dean spits out teeth and blood and a bit of tongue, but he doesn't move a muscle.  
  
"Sam," he promises, "I'm not gonna leave you."

**\+ + +**

The sun shines, sudden and bright, and Sam runs through an entire lifetime's worth of memories—it's spoons in mouths and Nair in shampoos; it's Bon Jovi and coffee and dressing in suits; it's stars and skies and side-by-side; it's sparring in April and fireworks in July; it's libraries and graveyards and endless motels _,_  and it's that one night, the highlight of his life, with Dean looking at Sam like he put the sun in the sky, and it's little green men and Legos in the Impala; it's carving their initials into the rear of the car; it's  _Sam and Dean,_  together, forever, and they're driving and driving, but they're always  _home._  
  
Sam feels himself regain control; lets go of Dean (his brother, his everything, his million and one reasons to fight) as he uncurls his fist as slow as the sun rising in that lonely broken ghosting of a cemetery; pulls Michael with him as he jumps into the hole.  
  
And, as he falls, he swears he sees Dean smile.


	5. four

  
Dean visits the cemetery all the time; commits it to memory as he looks for his brother, waiting for something— _anything_ —to appear.  
  
And, all-too-often, he finds that he has to dig deep to answer the questions he's being asked; simple things like  _where are you from_ and _what do you do_. It's been a long time since he moved in with Lisa, and the only thing he can come up with is still  _pest control_.  
  
At least it lets him talk about Sam, however indirectly; lets him talk about the partner he once had, a partner who sacrificed everything to save the world ( _from pests,_  Dean thinks, and laughs joylessly).  
  
He thinks chicks have an innate sense for guys who are really still available, too, because he keeps getting numbers from waitresses and bartenders; wonders if they'd still like him if they knew; wonders if they can tell he misses Sam like breathing.

**\+ + +**

Death considers Dean, very carefully. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. But make this quick, Dean. I'm very busy."  
  
Dean lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and clears his throat. "Sam's stuck in the Cage. Adam is trapped in there, too. And I want you to get them both out."  
  
"And what, exactly, made you seek me out?"  
  
"I figure you're something like the only person that can jailbreak it."  
  
"I assume you have an outstanding and eloquent reason as to why I should help you, when you and your brother are such utter affronts to the natural order?"  
  
Dean flounders. He hadn't thought about it. "I—uh—well—"  
  
Death harrumphs; chews and swallows a fry. "Pick one."  
  
"What?"  
  
"As a rule, I don't bring people back. I might make an exception once, but certainly not twice. So pick."  
  
As a courtesy, more than anything, Dean takes a moment to think—but no matter how many times this moment replays in his head; no matter how much he'll regret not being able to save Adam, too—give him a million wishes, and Dean knows what he'd ask for again and again and again.  
  
"Sam."  
  
But then Sam doesn't wake up, and when Castiel comes he frowns over Sam's lifeless body; tells Dean that "If you wanted to kill your brother, you should've done it outright."

**\+ + +**

And then, one day, Sam walks into the kitchen and sees Dean and Bobby sitting at the table, Dean barely even lifting his head as he tips a mug of beer down his throat, downing the amber liquid like a lifeline.  
  
"Do you want some coffee with your cirrhosis?" Sam asks.  
  
Dean's eyes go wide; he nearly chokes on his beer trying to stand up and push his chair out at the same time. He stares like he can't quite believe Sam's  _there_  and makes a beeline for Sam, pulling him into a hug so tight Sam thinks his eyeballs might pop.  
  
When Sam tells Dean that the last thing he remembers before waking up in the panic room is falling into Hell, Bobby's mouth goes tight like anger and his voice grates like metal. "Well, ain't this just neat and clean."  
  
It's not a question. Sam wonders why; asks, "Is there anything I should know?"  
  
"No," Dean says, and shoots Bobby a furtive look that he thinks Sam doesn't see.

**\+ + +**

They're hunting again, and Sam's back now—all patched up; good as new—but he doesn't remember anything from Hell.  
  
And Dean suspects Death blocked some extra things, too, because Sam's  _happy_ ; bright and open like the stars and Dean can't help but see that expression on his face and think of all the other times he's seen it; thinks of toddler Sammy giggling at big brother Dean and of teenaged Sam grinning (when he wasn't sulking) and of adult Sam, all dimples and dumb hair and miles of tanned skin.  
  
And, what with the way Sam is suddenly Mr. Sunshine, Dean thinks—inevitably—of Sam, that one night, fucked out and smiling and breathless and looking like everything Dean's ever wanted.  
  
He wonders how it ever came to be like this; hates himself for being so weak; knows he's fucked in the head and Sam's just being pulled along for the ride, but as of late Sam's weirdly fixated upon Dean's mouth and keeps touching touching touching and Dean's chest feels so tight when the two of them are in the same room that he can barely breathe for all his want.  
  
And Dean can't quite prove it; never really catches him, but he thinks— _knows—_ that Sam keeps  _looking_ , and despite Dean's best efforts to  _bury everything_ , all the sexual frustration and misguided anger he keeps bottled up still bubbles over and spills out, manifesting itself in frequent alcoholism and bouts of violence and a rather poorly-conceptualized piece of sarcasm.  
  
"Right, Sammy?" Dean says one particularly hot day, slamming his empty beer into the wastebasket and feeling oddly satisfied when the glass bottle shatters the way he feels. "Nothing like a little incestuous fucking to cope with our codependency issues, huh?"  
  
"What the fuck, dude?" Sam looks genuinely confused, but Dean knows better, so he narrows his eyes and strides right into Sam's space; smashes their mouths together and kisses Sam, hard.  
  
"Dean—don't—you're drunk—"  
  
"Off of a couple beers?" Dean laughs. "Don't play dumb, Sam. I've had enough of your bullshit," he growls, and pushes Sam's jeans down; palms his cock over his briefs.  
  
Sam's completely wide-eyed; dazed and confused even as he hardens so fast Dean's mouth waters.  
  
"Like this, don't you?" Dean asks, and strokes from tip to root, Sam hot and heavy in his hand, long firm pull that has his brother arching away from the wall as Dean tightens his grip just a little and gives Sam's cock another stroke before taking Sam's hand and placing it onto Dean's own crotch.  
  
"You feel that, Sammy? Damn zipper hurts like a  _bitch_."  
  
Sam keens and Dean swears, pressing in closer. Sam's dick is slick with precome, and Dean works the shaft—tight strokes up to circle the head and back down, spreading the wet all over Sam's skin and— _there_ , slow slide up and a twist at the top before Dean sinks down to his knees, jeans still untouched.  
  
"Dean," Sam chokes out, "Dean, you—."  
  
"Knew you'd get with the program," Dean says; flashes all his teeth and takes Sam into his mouth. Sam yelps and slams his head into the wall and Dean hollows his cheeks as he sucks and looks up at his brother, who looks positively  _wrecked,_ hips bucking uncontrollably _._  
  
Sam feels fucking  _electric_  underneath Dean, trembling like he's gonna jump out of his skin, and his fingers card restlessly through Dean's hair and fumble like they can't get a grip—Dean's hair is too short—and Dean groans appreciatively when Sam trails his fingers down Dean's face to slide them in alongside his dick. Dean hums happily before he slides his mouth back up; flicks Sam's slit with his tongue and pulls off before wrapping his hand around Sam's shaft again, Dean's spit slicking the way as he resumes stroking.  
  
Sam's been reduced to unintelligible mutters and something that sounds suspiciously like Dean's name and Dean moves a hand to his own lap; foregoes the zipper and just rubs at his crotch. "So fucking hot, Sam, look at you, give it up, come on—"  
  
Sam throws his head back; shoots all over Dean's fist and Dean brings his hand up to his mouth to lick the come off his fingers.  
  
But Sam grabs Dean's wrist and stops him; lowers himself to the ground and takes Dean's finger into his mouth, eyelashes fluttering. Sam's mouth is hot and wet and perfect and Dean's dick blurts precome but he's utterly entranced by Sam moaning as he sucks his own come off of Dean's hand.  
  
Sam opens his eyes, slowly, still heavy-lidded and pupils blown. Dean comes in his jeans.

**\+ + +**

"Hey, so, what was that all about?"  
  
"What?" Dean asks, never taking his eyes off the road. "What was what all about?"  
  
"You know, back there." Sam flounders, not quite believing that Dean has no idea what he's talking about. "The whole— _handjob_ — _"_  
  
"You were horny," Dean says, curtly, cutting Sam off. "Fuckin' with the whole atmosphere. I helped you out. Shit happens."  
  
Sam frowns—is pretty sure he remembers that Dean got off, too—but his brother clearly doesn't want to talk about it, and he doesn't push the subject.

**\+ + +**

Castiel's grin is so large it's borderline carnivorous, and he's glowing, which Dean never takes as a good sign. He sighs, happily. "You can't imagine what it's like. They're all inside me. Millions upon millions of souls." He turns to Dean, looking him straight on with that creepy Joker smile. "I saved you."  
  
"Yeah, man, sure thing," Dean agrees amicably. "Thanks. Now what d'you say we defuse you?"  
  
Castiel looks utterly confused. "Whatever could you possibly mean?"  
  
"You're full of nuke, Cass. It ain't safe. So let's get rid of this juice before it kills us all and send those souls back where they belong."  
  
"Oh, no," Castiel says, serenely, "no no no, they  _belong_  with me. You're just afraid. You're just saying that because I won."  
  
"Look, I know there might be a lot of bad water under the bridge, but we were family once. I would've died for you."  
  
"Dean," Castiel says, and steps up to stroke his face. "I have no family."  
  
Sam plunges the angel sword deep into Castiel's back, and the angel's smile flickers and his eyes fade for the briefest of moments before he pulls the sword out without so much as a scratch.  
  
He tsks as he flings Sam into a cart. "I'm glad you made it, Sam, but that's no way to treat your new God. So you will bow down and profess your love unto me, your Lord, or I shall destroy you."  
  
Sam groans as he tries to stand up; attempts to reason with the angel, but Castiel strikes him back down.

**\+ + +**

"Hi, Sam," Lucifer grins. "Long time no spooning."  
  
"You're not here," Sam tells him, "You're in Hell. My brain's leaking memories."  
  
Lucifer laughs at him. "You're one for three, Sammy-whammy. You're not the one going batshit crazy. Everything else is."  
  
"That's impossible."  
  
"No, escaping was impossible. You never left the Cage, Sam. You're still there, with me, and I must say—I think this is my best torture yet."

**\+ + +**

Sam closes his eyes but doesn't sleep; when Dean puts food out in front of him he eyes it apprehensively before taking a bite and Dean nearly cries when Sam yells and flings the plate across the room.  
  
The cheap chinaware breaks upon contact with the wall with a kind of ringing permanence and Sam stands abruptly, chair pushed back so fast it topples and flips, twice; two perfect backwards circles.

Dean sees Sam's hand go reflexively to where the glass cut him; twelve neat black stitches harsh against Sam's tanned palm, sewing him together and keeping him there like Dean can't.  
  
"You good?" Dean asks; hopes; wants Sam to lie because he doesn't think he can cope— _you can't handle the truth—_  
  
His brother finds the presence of mind to pull himself together, but Dean should know better by now, because nothing comes easy for Winchester blood.  
  
"It's getting worse," Sam says, simply, and speaks no further.

**\+ + +**

Lucifer's everywhere; he's in Sam's head and in Sam's face and in his dreams but Sam knows Dean's  _real_ ; Dean's real dean's real dean's real  _dean's real—_

**\+ + +**

"The third pig was the smartest, Sam-lamb. He went out and got himself some bricks."  
  
Sam doesn't bother looking at him. "That's why he lived, you dumbass."  
  
"Ooh, mean." Lucifer says, closing his book and leaning back in his chair. "You keep that up, and it's gonna be a helluva long time 'til I let your heart stop."  
  
Sam closes his eyes again; hears snippets of a conversation over Lucifer's rendition of "Highway to Hell":  
  
 _there's nothing—? until his candle blows out?_  
  
 _i'm sorry, i can't fix it. but maybe—i can shift it._

**\+ + +**

Sam's head is spinning and he keeps blinking to clear his vision; doesn't know when he last shaved and can't quite remember how he ended up sitting in this bed, but there's an oppressively bright light in the corner of the room.  
  
Something tells him it's not the sun, and it's not just because the window is on the other side of his bed.  
  
"Cass?" Sam asks, squinting at the blurry glowy light, "Cass, is that you?"  
  
"Sam," Dean sighs, "we can't bring him with us."

**\+ + +**

Dean's utterly head-over-heels all over again; missed his brother so fucking much that he can't keep his eyes off him; keeps finding reasons to bump into him, unnecessarily, and make sure Sam's alive.  
  
And on top of Sam being okay, they've got everything they need to take Dick down. But Sam's bitchface has been getting increasingly impressive as they drive closer to Dick Roman Industries, so Dean turns to look at him.  
  
"Man, you look like you're suckin' on a lemon. What's up?"  
  
Sam's still frowning. "Nothing."  
  
"Hey," Dean says, "don't worry your pretty little head, Samantha. We'll beat Dick," he says, and flashes his best grin. "I mean, I've got loads of practice."  
  
Sam's still got that same sour look on his face, but his mouth curves upwards a little and Dean's smile widens in response until the look on Sam's face is gone.  
  
Dean focuses his attention back onto the road; pats Sam's shoulder. "Seriously. It'll be fine."


	6. five

But Dean ends up being wrong—decidedly so—and now it's been nearly a year since Dean and Castiel killed Dick Roman, the head of the Leviathans, and then disappeared in a cloud of black goo, leaving Sam alone.  
  
Dean's been gone for so long Sam's pretty sure his default state is stuck on "grief", but at least he's almost got his act together; he's living in Kermit, Texas, with a girl named Amelia and a dog named Riot and life is kind of normal.  
  
Amelia's lost someone, too; understands that empty cold feeling in your chest like no one else because Don was the love of her life and Sam gets that, he  _does_. They're floating in an endless ocean, castaways on twin planks with nothing but a thread in between, holding on for dear life; keeping each other sane.  
  
He doesn't hunt anymore, and it feels a little weird, but it feels even weirder hunting without Dean at his back. Sam figures it's the lesser of two evils, to use a hyperbolic statement, and—to be honest—it's less painful this way.  
  
So he's in control and everything is (not quite) perfect. Until Amelia gets the call.  
  
Don is  _alive_.  
  
Sam's barely halfway through gluing his world back together, and there it goes again.

**\+ + +**

But then—  
  
Somewhere in Maine's 100-Mile Wilderness, there's a flash of light and Dean emerges in front of two campers, covered in blood and about a hundred years' worth of grime.  
  
"Hey," he calls out, and when the guy jumps back and stares at him, Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah,  _you_ , kid. Could you stop mackin' on your ladyfriend for a sec and tell me where I am?"  
  
"M-Maine."  
  
"Where's the nearest road?"  
  
"That way."  
  
He pauses to take one of their backpacks, then pulls a quick-change in the woods and hitches a ride with the first trucker he sees. He lets Benny out; leaves him with a phone number and keeps hitchhiking until he ends up somewhere around the vicinity of Rufus's old cabin and waltzes into a coffee shop where—surprise, surprise—the barista's seen Sam around.

**\+ + +**

  
Sam's in front of Rufus's cabin; is jolted rather rudely into awareness when a hand drops onto his shoulder.  
  
"You've gotten rusty, Sam." The voice comes from behind and Sam turns around to face the intrusion.  
  
He's nearly unrecognizable for all the dirt and grime; smells like earth and outdoors tinged with the sharp tang of blood and sweat and something like smoke, but underneath it all there's this unmistakably distinctive smell of lemons.  
  
 _Dean._  
  
Sam pulls his brother into a hug so tight neither of them can breathe, but when he lets go, he can't help but shake his head.  
  
"What?" Dean asks, but from the way his mouth is quirking it's clear he already knows.  
  
Sam answers the question anyway. "You and your fucking hair gel, man."  
  
"You're just jealous my hair's better than yours, bitch."  
  
Sam's smile tugs at his mouth; spreads like sunset. "Jerk."

**\+ + +**

"You were in Purgatory?" Sam asks as Dean exits the shower. "For the whole year? How'd you get out?"  
  
"I guess whoever built that place didn't want me in there any more than I did."  
  
"What about Cass? Was he there?"  
  
"Yeah. He didn't make it." Dean takes two beers out of the refrigerator, sits down at the table and hands Sam a bottle. "You know half your numbers are outta service? Did you even get any of my messages?"  
  
Sam remains standing. "Yeah, no, I, um—I ditched the phones."  
  
"Because?" Dean prompts.  
  
Sam does a slow exhale, long and deliberate. "I met a girl. I don't, uh. I don't hunt anymore."  
  
Dean's jaw drops and he shakes his head. "So…while I was knee-fucking-deep in God's armpit, you were topside, gettin' all cozy with a chick?"  
  
"I thought you were dead!"  
  
"I wasn't! I was killing monsters, actually, which is what I thought we do."  
  
"Look, Dean. As far as I knew, what we do got every single member of my family killed. For the first time in my life, I was completely alone, and I didn't know what to do. So, yeah, I fixed up the Impala, and I just— _drove_."  
  
"After you looked for me."  
  
Sam says nothing.  
  
"Did you look for me, Sam?"  
  
Sam looks away.  
  
Dean is livid. "Oh, good. Now, we—we always told each other not to look for each other, right? That's smart. Good for you."

"I just—"  
  
Dean cuts him off. "Of course, we always ignored that because of our deep, abiding love for each other, but not this time, huh, Sammy?"  
  
Sam is silent for a moment. "I'm still the same guy, Dean."  
  
"Bully for you. I'm fuckin' not," Dean says, and slams the door on his way out.  
  
"Welcome back," Sam says to no one in particular, except maybe the walls and the cabin door.

**\+ + +**

"Driver picks the diner, shotgun shuts his cakehole."  
  
Sam rolls his eyes—they've been irritable and pissy for days; snap at each other like pitbulls fighting over some invisible line and he  _knows_  Dean's not sleeping well but refuses to tell Sam why—calls up someone else, instead, and Sam wonders how the fuck Dean made a friend despite being trapped in Purgatory.  
  
Sam's feeling ignored and replaceable and Dean makes eyes at the waitress all night; turns the charm up to eleven and chats with her as she cleans dishes and Sam leaves in a huff.  
  
He laughs humorlessly at himself as he walks back to their room, too stubborn to take the Impala.  
  
He's so pathetic.

**\+ + +**

Dean goes to a bar after the diner, and there's a brunette who takes a particular interest in him.  
  
She's got a cute little mouth and eyes like chocolate and Dean turns up the charm; smiles back like second-nature but she's perceptive enough and her smile morphs into something like understanding and she walks up to Dean, grabbing his keys from the bartender.  
  
"Let me take you home," she tells him, gently, and hands him the worn leather jacket.  
  
Her eyes are too warm—too familiar—and Dean takes the jacket from her but shakes his head, wanting her to leave. "I can drive myself."  
  
She frowns; brows knitting, face still pretty. "You sure?"  
  
"Yeah," Dean tells her, and she gives him his keys and her number.  
  
"I'm Lisa. Call if you get into trouble."  
  
Dean nods reflexively before the name hits him like a sucker punch, and he ends up heading for the door as fast as possible, barely gets past the frosted double doors before he's puking into a trashcan.  
  
Sometimes he wishes he could carve out everything he's ever regretted; just slice them away so that he didn't have to keep burying them in liquor and violence. They have a way of cropping up on him at the worst possible moments.

**\+ + +**

Dean gets back to the room around two in the morning, not as drunk but still smelling of cheap perfume, and is greeted (he uses that term loosely) by a very angry Sam as he flicks on the lights.  
  
"So? " Sam spits, eyes flashing. "Did you fuck her in the alleyway? Or right in the bar? You show everyone in the room your pretty little dick?"  
  
"I—I didn't—" Dean stammers, floored, and looks around the room for signs of a demon possession. When he takes in the beer bottles on the bedside table, it clicks—Sam's _drunk_ —and he's suddenly, inexplicably, furious. "What the fuck, Sam?" He snarls, "What gives you of all people the goddamn right to go and get drunk a-and angry over me talkin' to a couple of chicks when you and that Amelia girl played fuckin'  _house_  for a year?"  
  
"Of all the stupid, egotistical bullsh—Amelia wasn't—she had  _nothing_  to do with not hunting!"  
  
Dean snorts derisively. "Now why am I having trouble believing that?"

"Look," Sam stands, crowding into Dean's space. "I don't expect you to understand. You don't—you were gone, Dean, and I found something—someone. Someone that—that needed me as much as I needed them. Because you weren't—"  
  
Dean doesn't want to hear the end of it; just pushes Sam away and crosses the room to the door. The night air breezes in, cold and unforgiving and frozen, and Dean lets the door slam shut.

**\+ + +**

"I was falling apart!" Sam screams at the closed door, choking back tears and listening to the fading rumble of the Impala.  
  
He turns his back and collapses onto the bed; stares at the god-awful painting on the wall and ignores the way Dean isn't there.  
  
Again.

**\+ + +**

Sam wakes up the next day with a pounding headache and the overwhelming urge to pee.  
  
He sits up in a hurry and nearly vomits because of the sudden headrush before he notices that Dean's back in the other bed; came home last night after Sam fell asleep, angry and drunk. He rubs his temples before another wave of nausea crashes like an eighteen-wheeler and he rolls clumsily out of bed, stumbling and shuffling his way to the bathroom. He kneels next to the toilet, wincing at the loud BANG of the seat when it falls after he tries and fails to put it up.  
  
He finally gets the damn thing to cooperate just in time to stick his head into the toilet and produce what looks and smells like one or two vital organs brined in an entire brewery's worth of alcohol and his dinner from last night. In between dry heaves, Sam hears Dean rustle the covers and come into the bathroom.  
  
Sam's skin is clammy and his forehead is drenched in sweat and his hair is sticking to his face in wet sweaty strands and he feels the way he knows he looks, so he leans his face against the cool white porcelain of the toilet.  
  
"I'm, uh—" he starts, just as Dean opens his mouth, and Sam shakes his head to shush him. "No, Dean, look, I—I'm sorry. I was a little—a lot—drunk. I didn't mean it."  
  
Dean sits next to Sam on the cheap broken tile of the bathroom floor and hesitates before he puts a hand out and rests it on Sam's sweaty back; strokes his shoulder comfortingly and Sam closes his eyes, exhaling deeply.  
  
Dean clears his throat. "Yeah, I was a bit of a dick, too."  
  
They stay like that for a few minutes before Sam can feel the atmosphere shift, and he knows what's coming before Dean even says it.  
  
"You're such a fuckin' lightweight."  
  
And, just like that, Sam knows they'll be okay.

**\+ + +**

They decide to start hunting again, trying to get back into the swing of things, and Sam feels like maybe he and Dean are finally on the same wavelength.  
  
It's an open-and-shut, vengeful-spirit, salt-and-burn case—three dead along the border of North and South Carolina, no prints, and all mutilated with what seem to be library cards.  
  
Dean, predictably, makes a joke about the librarian reading the instruction manual wrong.

Sam feigns irritation with his brother's immaturity and laughs when he thinks Dean isn't looking.

**\+ + +**

They finish the job right there and then—it was really much too easy (although a more-than-welcome break)—but it's too late to make their way back to the Batcave, so they pull into a motel around eight. Dean goes to get them a room and Sam busies himself pretending not to watch Dean sweet-talk the clerk.  
  
"Room 107, Sammy," Dean tosses him the keys as he exits, "And dibs on first shower."  
  
"Hot date with the motel clerk?" Sam asks, only half-joking as they walk towards their room.  
  
"Nah," Dean smirks, "With her and her twin."  
  
Sam rolls his eyes, opens the door, and flops onto the bed. "Have fun. Brush your teeth. Don't wanna scare her away with your extra-onions-breath."  
  
Dean grins and pounces, breathing all over Sam.  
  
"Ugh, Dean, that's—get off!" Sam throws his brother onto the other bed. "God, it's like something died in there."  
  
Dean laughs at him. "Aw, you're just jealous because I scored. With _twins_."  
  
Sam shakes his head; smothers the imagery of Dean with twins and rolls over. "Just go take your shower before I puke all over you."

**\+ + +**

About an hour after Dean leaves, Sam takes a shower and lies on the bed, wondering whether or not he should just check himself into the nearest asylum.  
  
He isn't sure when his feelings for Dean turned from idolatry into whatever this is, but Sam refuses—absolutely, outrightly  _refuses_ —to let it screw up his relationship with Dean. Sure, they've fooled around, crossed some lines, but both times were heat of the moment—both times, one of them nearly  _died_ —and Dean certainly never talked about it afterwards, let alone gave the impression that  _it_ was going to turn into anything. So Sam hits the brakes hard on that train of thought and tries to fall asleep.  
  
He is most definitely  _not_  awake at four in the morning when Dean comes back smelling of orange blossoms and sex and lets cold air in through the open door.

**\+ + +**

There's this weird thing in the pit of Sam's stomach that's becoming more and more prevalent as of late, and Sam tells himself that it's just indigestion; that it is in no way connected to wherever Dean is, and that it most definitely does not  _purr_ , because—to be honest—that's just fucking  _creepy_ , and Sam's seriously considering trying to exorcise himself.

**\+ + +**

Dean forgets his jacket on the next couple of hunts, both of which lead to him getting drenched because the universe is a sadistic motherfucker, and he manages to get sick in the process; catches a cold or something but Dean figures he's fine; he's worked jobs while dealing with set-backs much worse than the damn sniffles. He's got Sam to look after, anyway, and he can't afford to take a day off right now.

**\+ + +**

The sound of the shower stops, abruptly, and Sam hears the door squeak as Dean steps out. He thinks it's a little weird, how quiet everything still is, and he thinks the cadence of Dean's footsteps don't seem to be as steady as they usually are.  
  
Sam's heart stops when he hears the thump of Dean's body falling to the floor.  
  
He's trying to force himself to remain calm as he sprints down the hall towards Dean; curses the damned Men of Letters and their labyrinth of a headquarters, and then he sees that Dean's eyes are closed and his chest isn't moving, and there it is; there's the cold fear spiking through Sam's chest and the pit in his stomach.  
  
Dean," he says, shaking him gently, trying to keep from sounding hysterical, trying not to let the panic creep into his voice. "Hey, hey, Dean, you're okay. It's okay. Come on. Wake up."  
  
Dean opens his eyes slowly, and they're wide and unfocused; dart around like he's looking for a spirit or a creature or some other explanation for why he's on the floor. Sam helps him sit up, slowly; winces at the dirt and dust lining the cuts down Dean's back and hopes they're not going to get infected.  
  
Dean stands and wobbles—Sam catches him and Dean laughs, weakly: "Feel like I'm you, Sammy; you were such a mess when you were learnin' how to walk." Sam smiles back; is fully aware it looks more like a pained grimace, and helps his brother stand again.

Sam supports Dean all the way to his bedroom. Dean doesn't complain—not once—and it scares him.

**\+ + +**

  
By the time Sam gets Dean cleaned up and onto the bed, Dean's shivering and clammy; cold sweat even in the midst of his fever.  
  
He's oddly pliant and docile; is still letting Sam clean and bandage every cut and scrape without making a single remark and Sam doesn't know how to deal with this person that isn't his brother.

**\+ + +**

Three days later, Dean finds welts all over his body.  
  
Sam does some quick research and finds out that it's urticaria; that Dean idio-fucking-pathically ended up getting hives from the goddamned mutated virus he caught and that there's no real way to treat them except to take allergy medicine.  
  
"It says you need something with an antihistamine," Sam says, brow furrowing as Dean coughs so hard he can feel his lung coming up.  
  
"Like, what, Benadryl?" Dean asks between hacks.  
  
"Yeah." Sam nods, and Dean feels momentarily vindicated by the surprise on his face. "But it's two thirty-eight in the morning, and Google says that the closest drugstore doesn't open until six."  
  
Sam helps Dean strip his shirt off so he can survey the damage, and Dean sees them everywhere; crawling up his inner arms and invading his abdomen and chest; stretching their ugly patchy itch down his legs from his inner thighs to his feet.  
  
It feels like a thousand million trillion gazillion needles stabbing him at once and the burn of the itching is so intense it's got Dean twitchy and hot and bothered and he can't sleep; hasn't been able to for nearly twenty-four hours and Sam tells Dean that he looks so exhausted he could die.  
  
Dean responds, half-jokingly, that they both could.

**\+ + +**

His fever gets worse, abruptly; temperature climbing higher and higher so rapidly that Sam swears he can  _feel_ the air get warmer. Dean's deathly pale and Sam can't tell if he's even breathing, so he puts his cheek down to Dean's mouth and Sam holds his breath until he feels the faintest puff of air against his skin.  
  
He stays awake the entire night, too caught in wide-eyed panic every time Dean coughs to even think about feeling tired, and his brother looks so pallid and frail and not Dean not dean  _not dean_  that, very briefly, Sam wonders if he's back in Hell.

**\+ + +**

The minute the clock flashes 6:00, Sam is out the door and driving as fast as he can to the drugstore in town.  
  
When he gets back to the bunker, he finds Dean sitting up on the bed. Sam tosses him the box of Benadryl and Dean pops a pill; downs it with water and lies back. He manages not to cough for a while, his eyes close, and his breathing slows; evens out.  
  
Sam waits until he's  _sure_ Dean's asleep before he leans down; slow, gentle, soft as he dares. "God, Dean, you're such a dumbass sometimes," he murmurs, and kisses him.

**\+ + +**

The question comes out of the blue. "Why'd you do it?"  
  
"Why'd I—w-what?" Sam stammers.  
  
"Why'd you kiss me, Sam?" Dean asks, and he's so subdued and quiet and un-Dean-like that Sam's blood runs cold.  
  
"I was worried, okay?" he says, perhaps a little more sharply than he meant to.  
  
"So you just—decided to kiss me?" Dean sounds incredulous.  
  
Sam's about to further defend his actions when something tugs at his brain; flash of a memory and—suddenly—he's had enough of Dean's shit. "Wait, so I kiss you and you confront me about it, but you ignored me when I brought up the fact that you gave me a handjob and then fucking  _blew_  me?"

"That was—that was  _ages_ ago—"  
  
"Oh, so  _now_  it exists? Okay, what about that time we fucked, huh? All those years ago? What about that?"  
  
"I'm—"  
  
"What do you want me to  _say,_ Dean? I'll say anything you want—I can pretend nothing ever happened—but you don't get to go all weird over a kiss when I never got a straight answer from you!"  
  
It's a long, long silence before Dean speaks. "I—didn't know," he says, visibly struggling for the words. "I thought…I thought that you'd forgotten. That they were just one-time things."  
  
Sam's eyes close involuntarily; flutter like his heart and he turns away. "If it bothers you that much, you can leave. I'll be fine."  
  
Dean's quiet again, and his voice is uncharacteristically soft when he answers. "Sam. Don't be stupid."  
  
Sam looks back at him, and he's overwhelmed—not at all sure what to do with this—this  _look_  on Dean's face like he might die on the spot; too much love and nowhere to put it and not enough time in the world.  
  
"We're stupidly, stupidly codependent upon each other," Dean says, "and I wouldn't have it any other way, and if you crack a joke about girly shit right now I swear to God—"  
  
Sam doesn't wait to hear the end of the threat before he hauls Dean in for a kiss, and it's  _good_ , really fucking good the way his brother's always bragged about. Dean's mouth is hot and wet and Sam's got stars for blood and clouds for thought; light on the horizon and nothing in sight but he feels like he could melt through the floor and drip through the cracks.  
  
He kisses back just as hard, keeps his eyes open so he can look at Dean's face and tag his freckles but he loses count somewhere around twenty-seven and his eyes slide shut when Dean surges into his mouth like forever and a day, grief and worry and love, making its way into Sam's system and seeping through his skin.

**\+ + +**

"Nice tattoo, by the way."  
  
Dean opens his eyes but can't see Sam's face, so he assumes Sam's wearing a smirk.  
  
"Bitch," Dean says, "You have the same one."  
  
"Wasn't talking about that one."  
  
Sam tilts Dean's head so he sees that Sam's genuinely smiling, not teasing, and Dean realizes what Sam's talking about.  
  
"Oh," he breathes, and when Sam drops kisses across the tattooed image of the amulet, Dean realizes this is it; this is  _i love you, i forgive you_ ; this is  _you and me against the world_ , and they are endgame.  
  
They end up on the bed somehow, kiss growing hotter as Sam travels up Dean's chest and neck and mouths over his jaw; bites his shoulder and sucks bruises into his throat; grinds against Dean's dick, hard and dirty, before flipping him over. "You fucker," Dean gasps against the sheets. "Fucking touch me."  
  
"I'll do better," Sam tells him. "I'll fuck you until you can't stand."  
  
"Promises, promises," Dean says, cocksure as always, and Sam grins.


	7. six

They're packing the Impala—or, rather,  _Dean_  is—because Sam is currently stupid and useless and giddy. "Admit it, Dean. You love it."  
  
Dean shakes his head and denies it vehemently even as he lets Sam kiss him, insisting "No, Sam, contrary to popular belief, I  _don't_  actually like being forcibly shoved into the hood of my baby so we can make out like fucking  _teenagers_  over her."  
  
Sam ignores him and slides his hands down from Dean's shirt to his wrists, trapping him against the Impala before turning his head and very loudly informing the people in the motel parking lot that "Dean Winchester likes being manhandled during sex!"  
  
All three people give them a dirty look, and Dean cringes.  "Do you mind sayin' that one more time?" he grumbles, "I think there're a couple camels in the Kalahari that didn't hear you."  
  
Sam sighs, exasperated. "Camels are far more common in the Sahara, Dean," but he's secretly impressed that Dean is even aware the Kalahari Desert exists.  
  
Dean's opening his mouth to say something—possibly brain-related; definitely insulting—when Sam's phone rings. He vaguely recognizes the number flashing up on the screen, but the problem is that he can't remember which alias he used.  
  
So he crosses his fingers and hazards a guess.  
  
"FBI," Sam says, brusquely, "This is Agent—"  
  
" _Agent Weine!"_ comes the tinny voice through the speaker, and Sam breathes a sigh of relief.  
  
"Yeah, that's me. How can I help you?"  
  
" _I, uh—don't know if you remember me. It's gotta be, what—bordering on six years now. But this is Chief James Evans?"_  
  
Sam doesn't know why he connects the name so quickly, but he has a sudden and vivid flashback to a man with gray eyes and grayer hair. "From Arizona?"  
  
" _Bingo. Anyway, I'm sorry to contact you after all this time, but do you remember the Four Corners murders?"_  
  
"I think so. Five vics, throat slashed, then the sixth one turned up disemboweled?"  
  
 _"Yeah, that's the one. It's been a long time, but that BOLO we put out finally turned something up. She's been seen. "_  
  
"We'll be right there." Sam says, and snaps the phone shut, his good mood gone.  
  
"What's up, Sammy?"  
  
Sam throws the rest of their stuff into the trunk. "Karma's back."

**\+ + +**

They're back in Scottsdale and pulling up to a building that's familiar in some dreamlike way, and Chief Evans is out in front with his hat on and brim low.  
  
"It's good to see you, Chief," Dean says.  
  
The older man greets them warmly with a smile and a handshake. "Good to see you both, Agent Shreck. Come inside and we'll talk shop."  
  
They follow Evans into his office where he pulls out a folder—it's old and yellowed but obviously sparse, containing nothing but the Four Corners case files and a bare-bones profile for one Karma Hill, former sex worker.  
  
Evans gestures at the papers as Sam and Dean sit in the chairs across from his desk. "Unfortunately, we never did get very far with this case. She made a quick escape—clean—and the only thing we had to go on was that hair in the window. DNA didn't turn anything up except for a familial match to a coroner who used to work in Colorado."  
  
"So—her dad? Did you guys find him?" Sam asks.  
  
"He's dead five years now. Fell down the stairs. The people in the town said he never mentioned a daughter and they never saw one."  
  
"Was there a wife?"  
  
"No, she died before he did, and she was an illegal immigrant. No documents at all. And there's no record of anyone named Karma Hill before she started working at the Dovetail. Her Social  
Security was faked."  
  
"Damn," Dean whistles, "we got our work cut out for us."  
  
Evans nods. "She all but dropped off the face of the earth. But like I said, an off-duty officer swears he saw her in the reflection of his car window when he was buying coffee two days ago, and sure enough—Karma slipped up. The café's security cams showed a black-haired woman in the back alley matching her description."  
  
"Do we know where she's hiding?"  
  
"No leads on that, unfortunately."  
  
Dean stands and cracks his neck. "Thanks for all your help, Chief Evans. We appreciate it."  
  
Evans walks to the door, holding it open for them as they exit, and hands them the file. "If there's anything else I can do, let me know."

**\+ + +**

The motel they check into is the same one as last time, and the room is the same, and Sam walks in and just stares for a second, dick hardening, memory flaring up, reminding him of that night.  
  
Dean comes in through the door with his own bag and drops it onto the table, coming up behind him. Dean slings an arm across Sam's chest and holds him there, grinding the heel of his hand into his crotch, the zipper digging in, and Sam sucks in a short breath.  
  
"Kinky," Dean tells him, and Sam snorts; links their fingers for a second before breaking Dean's hold and sitting on the bed with the folder.  
  
"So the bitch is back," Dean says, and settles himself next to Sam with the laptop. "Any idea where to start?"  
  
Sam spreads the files on the bed. "Not much, but I'm thinking Missing Persons. If she's been around town, she must've picked someone up or could be scouting something out. And her vics might not have anything in common, but they're all guys and they live in one of the Four-Corners states, right?"  
  
"She could also just drop off the grid again," Dean points out. "If she's got the resources, she might know that the police are onto her."  
  
"But she'll stay to finish a kill," Sam says, and takes the computer from Dean. "It's worth a shot."

**\+ + +**

Sam finds a Missing Persons report filed yesterday—Reginald Meyer, thirty-three, a bartender in Salt Lake City who hasn't come into work for the past three days.  
  
They pay a visit to his workplace, a nightclub called Insomnia, and Dean decides to check out the back alley. Sam nods and walks into the club; flashes his badge at the bouncer.  
  
"FBI. Just need to ask some questions."  
  
The bouncer sizes him up and calls someone over, and Sam turns to see a man with dark skin and green eyes come to the door.  
  
"Can I help you?"  
  
"Agent Weine, FBI. Are you the owner?"  
  
"Yeah, that's me. I'm Chris."  
  
"I'm here about Reginald Meyer. I understand he hasn't come into work for the past few days?"  
  
Chris lifts the rope and Sam walks in. "What's this about? It's just a missing persons—isn't it a bit, I don't know, insignificant for the Feds to investigate?"  
  
His accent's rather unremarkable, but there's a hint of  _something,_  and it sounds familiar, but Sam can't quite place it. "I can't give you much detail. Did Mr. Meyer have any enemies?"  
  
Chris shakes his head, opening the door to a back room. "Reggie's a good guy. And a damn good bartender—I've had to start doing the drinks myself, because no one else does 'em quite like he does."  
  
"When was the last time you saw him?"  
  
"Wednesday. He left in his car with a girl. They'd been talking all night."  
  
Sam pulls out a photo of Karma. "Was this her?"  
  
Chris takes the photo and squints at it. "It could be. The lighting in here is pretty low, and her hair is longer than this—but it definitely looks like her, yeah."  
  
Sam suddenly flashes back to when he worked this case alone; thinks it's a long shot, but asks anyway. "You said your name was Chris?"  
"Chris Soriano. Why?"  
  
"You wouldn't happen to know the owner of The Dovetail, would you?"  
  
"Bex Branson?" Chris asks, looking a little taken aback. "Yeah, I do. She bailed me out, years and years ago. What's she got to do with this?"  
  
Sam doesn't say anything at first—isn't sure how to start—but then Chris's eyes widen. "Oh, no. You think Reggie might be part of those murders?"  
  
Dean walks in before Sam says anything, and nods at Chris. "Sorry to interrupt, but we gotta go. I think I found something."  
  
Sam stands up; pushes his chair back, all business. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Soriano. We'll do everything we can."

**\+ + +**

"I found this in the alleyway," Dean says, and holds up a key.  
  
"No way," Sam breathes. "She dropped her key? How do you know it's hers?"  
  
"Building across the street has the most paranoid doorman in the world. He threatened to call the cops on me before I flashed him the badge."  
  
"And?"  
  
"He's been videotaping everything since a break-in a couple of weeks ago. And guess who was on camera?"  
  
"Holy crap."  
  
"Yeah. Never thought I'd say this, but thank god for paranoid little shits. Now all we've gotta do is figure out what door this opens."  
  
"I think I have an idea. She needs somewhere to keep a victim, and we know she doesn't kill them in their own homes…what if she rented a place? Or bought one?"  
  
A few clicks and some furious typing later, Sam's pulled up a list of the most recent buys and sells in and around Salt Lake City. There are only six listings, and Sam's never been more thankful for the bad housing market.  
  
Dean points at a building. "That one."  
  
"The fuck, dude? You didn't even look at all of them!"  
  
"Don't need to. Don't be jealous just because I know how women work."  
  
"There's no way that's the right building! You haven't even considered the variables—visibility, height, escape routes—"  
  
"I'm telling you, that's the one.  _I'd_ pick that one. Double or nothing, that's the right place."  
  
"Fine. You're so sure? I'll take that bet."  
  
"The usual?"  
  
"The usual."

**\+ + +**

It takes all of three seconds of showing her picture around the building for several men (and one woman) to nod and say that she moved in a week ago.  
  
Dean crows triumphantly. "Get ready to wear some panties, bitch!"  
  
"Fuck you," Sam says, giving him the finger.  
  
"You'll still have to wear them," Dean laughs, "but we can do that, too."

**\+ + +**

They go back to the building under cover of night, unsuited and armed.  
  
"This is it, Dean. She's in there."  
  
"I know, man. Just stick to the plan. I bust in, you follow, and once you've got the shot—"  
  
"I shoot her through the head."  
  
"You bet your ass you will. You got my back, right, Sammy?"  
  
"Always," Sam tells him, and it's a promise.

**\+ + +**

Dean unlocks the door and slips in. Sam closes the door behind him, soundlessly, and Dean moves ahead towards the bedroom, where he can see light flooding out from under the gap.  
  
He turns and signals to Sam, who nods, and Dean kicks the door in to see Karma leaning down to untie the last restraint from an unconscious Reggie. She doesn't so much as twitch, which Dean resents, and she turns to look at him, letting Reggie's head drop from her hands and onto the bed.  
  
"Hiya, dollface. So nice of you to drop by. Where's your rude little brother?"  
  
"It's just me today," Dean shrugs. "Sorry to disappoint."  
  
"Pity," Karma sighs. "I was willing to give him a second chance. We'll just have to make do with a party of three, then."  
  
"Yeah, well, party's over, bitch." Dean says, and cocks his gun. "Step away from the bed."  
  
"Oh, Dean, where did your manners go?" she asks petulantly and shifts so that Reggie's head is in her lap, and there's suddenly a wicked-looking blade in her hand, curved metal glinting in the light from her lamp. "I think we need to lighten the mood in here. Let's get  _happy,_ " she says, and slices into either side of Reggie's mouth.  
  
Reggie wakes up instantly, his eyes flying open, and he screams as Karma starts breaking his fingers and the cuts at his mouth extend up into his cheeks as the muscles contract; permanent Glasgow smile that Dean knows will never fade.  
  
"Why don't you put the gun down, Dean?" Karma asks, calm in the face of the blood getting all over her face and hands. "Or I'm going to have to start gutting dear old Reggie here, and as much as I'd love to do that, it's not a party if we're not all having fun."  
  
Dean knows Sam can't get a clear shot at Karma while her head is bent and the rest of her body is covered by Reggie's screaming, writhing body, so he tries to pry him from her while keeping her focus away from where Sam is hiding.  
  
"Okay, okay, we'll do it your way," he says and glances in Sam's direction; split-second slip-up that he can't help and can never help, because Sam is and always will be his weakness.  
  
Karma catches it, of course; looks back from him to the doorway to him again, grin widening like the San Francisco fault.  
  
" _There's_  our darling little Sammy," she says, and rolls off the bed as she pushes Reggie into Dean; lithe little movement that throws Dean off-balance and he crashes to the ground as Karma hauls Sam into the room and throws him against the wall.  
  
Sam hits the wall with a loud  _thunk_ , the back of his head making a sickeningly loud cracking noise and he slumps down.  
  
"I think he'd make a perfect target for 'pin the tail', don't you?" Karma asks and produces three more blades from her dress.  
  
"Sam!" Dean shouts, rolling Reggie onto his side. "Sam, get up!"  
  
Sam shakes back to reality, but he's too slow—head pounding; lightheaded and woozy from getting thrown into the wall—and Karma throws the knives just as Dean shoves her over. She turns, furious, and body-checks Dean into the dresser, punching him in the jaw before pulling him to her and holding a knife to his throat.  
  
Sam's up now although he's seeing double and his vision is fuzzing at the edges, but he manages to figure out where Karma is standing with Dean trapped against her. "Move a muscle," he snarls, raising his gun, "and I swear to God I'll shoot."  
  
"Are you now?" she sneers, and her smile is cold like the ice in Sam's chest. "I don't believe you. You don't have the gu—"  
  
BAM!  
  
Karma falls and Dean's body tumbles, too—Sam drops the gun as he runs to shake his brother awake, the only thing in his mind an endless litany of  _deandeandeandeandean._  
  
"Sam?" Dean asks, disoriented, and makes a move to get up before he holds a hand to his head and groans. "Man, this is going to bruise. She packed a punch."  
  
"You okay?" Sam asks as he tries to help him up.  
  
"I'm fine," Dean insists, slapping his hands away. "Seriously, dude, I'm good. Get off me. Jesus. Go fuckin' help the guy on the floor with the six broken fingers and blood coming out of his mouth, why don't you."

**\+ + +**

They stand there after Reggie gets carted away by EMS, contemplating the perfect circle of the bullethole in Karma's forehead.  
  
"It's off-center."  
  
Sam smacks him on the shoulder. "It's fuckin' perfect. I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"Nope," Dean shakes his head. "Look, right there. It's closer to that eyebrow than it is to that one."  
  
"Bullshit. Her eyebrows must be crooked."  
  
Dean crosses his arms; admits, grudgingly: "Fine, good shot, okay?"  
  
"Thanks," Sam chirps and grins brightly at Dean until he rolls his eyes.  
  
There's another silence until Dean suddenly twitches like an ice cube's been dropped down his shirt.  
  
"What?" Sam asks.  
  
"Nothing, just—people, man," Dean shudders. "Sometimes they're even skeevier than witches."  
  
Sam nods somberly, then sniggers. "Dude, admit it. Right up until she slipped you a mickey, you were so gonna bang her. You have the worst taste in women, you know."  
  
Dean smiles, a  _ha-ha-you're-so-funny_  sarcastic twist of the lips, and cheerfully advises Sam to  _shut the fuck up_.


	8. epilogue

"That 'monument' of yours was fucking underwhelming, Sammy."  
  
"Hey, at least we got a picture of ourselves."  
  
"Yeah, whatever. I'm starving."  
  
"Dean, there's not gonna be any diners open this ear—"  
  
"Hey, look, Sammy! Their sign says pie _and_  coffee!"

**\+ + +**

It's getting late.  
  
Not that three in the morning isn't already late, but still. It's getting late. And Sam is freezing his ass off.  
  
He rubs his arms, wishing Dean would hurry up and pay the bill so they can—  
  
 _CRASH!_  
  
"GET OUT!"  
  
Sam winces, shifts his feet, and hopes to god that Dean isn't the cause of the trouble.

Unfortunately, the sound of his brother's heated retort reminds Sam that he of all people should know best that God wouldn't be doing him any favors.  
  
Heaving a sigh, Sam pushes open the door to the diner. The blast of warm air is welcome, but the fork hurtling through the air and flying uncomfortably near his groin? Not so much.  
  
"Sammy!" Dean turns, dodging another airborne utensil. "Just in time; you gotta back me u—hey, Sam, that's not—that ain't fair, man, let go of my arm, I got rights—mmMMF!"

Sam claps his hand over Dean's mouth. "Ma'am, I'm sorry about any trouble my brother might've caused. All the doctors say it's incurable," he explains, studiously ignoring Dean's biting.  
  
The waitress snaps her gum and adjusts her skirt, looking thoroughly unimpressed but less likely to start castrating people with butter knives. "Fine," she snaps. "But do me a favor and get out, yeah?"  
  
"Oh, yeah, yeah, we will," Sam nods furiously, death-grip on Dean's arm as he edges towards the door. "Uh, it won't happen again. Have a good night!"  
  
Sam whirls and all but bolts out of there. Dean still manages to flip the waitress the bird.

**\+ + +**

"Jesus, Dean. I mean, I know you're not exactly Mr. Personality, but what did you do to that poor waitress?"  
  
Dean snorts and starts taking his boots off. "Poor? Sammy, you've got to be shitting me. There was nothing  _poor_  about how she was flingin' those knives."  
  
Sam lays his bag on the table, shaking his head. "Dean, waitresses don't just start throwing things across diners for no reason. You must've done some—"  
  
"Look," Dean interrupts, "Maybe I forgot to tip her and maybe she served your stupid girly coffee cold and maybe I said 'bitch' a bit too loudly and she didn't take too kindly to that. Sometimes people get tired and grumpy at ass o'clock in the morning."  
  
Sam is silent for a moment. "You were buying me coffee?"  
  
"Way to see the point, man, it's obvious who the college education belongs to in the fami—stop grinnin' at me like that, I had to protect your honor, didn't I, Samantha?"  
  
Sam laughs. Dean glares at him and shoves him into the motel bathroom. "Ladies get first shower. Hurry up."  
  
Sam closes the door, still laughing.


	9. deleted scenes

  
  
**i.**    
  
Dean feigns sleep and waits for Sam to leave the room; listens for the fading purr of the Impala and the crunch of gravel as his brother pulls out of the parking lot. He pulls the curtain aside, just to check, and when the coast is clear he hops out of bed and gets dressed before hurrying out the door.  
  
He clambers into an old Jetta—come on, the guy left the windows open!—and hotwires it fast before reversing out of the space and heading towards the only coffee shop in town. He parks right next to his baby, which Sam parked in the corner furthest from all the other cars ( _Smart kid,_  Dean thinks), and snags a newspaper before walking in.  
  
Dean spots Sam right away, his Gigantor body towering over the women behind and in front of him—stupid Sam and his stupid girly coffee—and sits down at a table in the back just out of what Dean knows is Sam’s line of sight. He puts the newspaper up and holds it just under his eyes, surreptitiously watching as Sam steps up to the counter and flashes his dimples at the barista, who stammers and blushes so hard Dean thinks she might faint.  
  
Sam opens his mouth and Dean mouths his order along with him:  _Could I get a half-caf, double vanilla latte at 140, please? And a regular black coffee, no sugar, no cream, no syrup; extra black._  
  
Dean finds it hilarious when the barista’s smile fades a little, obviously thinking that the latte is for Sam’s girlfriend, but then when she hands him the coffee he takes a sip and her eyes widen in shock.  
  
Sam pays no attention. “Could I, uh, could I get some extra coffee in this?”  
  
The barista recovers fast, which Dean admires, and grins at Sam. “Sure. Anything for you,” she chirps, and pours it in. “That’ll be $7.76.”  
  
Sam digs in his pocket for his wallet, looking down, and Dean takes it as his chance to get out. He leaves the newspaper on the table and slips out the door in the wake of another leaving customer; hops back into the Jetta and speeds back to the motel before undressing and getting back under the covers.  
  
Sam walks in not five minutes later, balancing coffee on one arm and bags of breakfast on the other and clutching the newspaper Dean had left at the shop in his hand.  
  
 **ii.**       
  
"Heeeey, Sleeping Beauty.” Dean calls from the Men of Letters’ kitchen. “Want some?"  
  
Sam furrows his brow and frowns into the couch cushions. “No. G’way.”  
  
“Man, you’ve been passed out for hours. Do you even know what time it is?”  
  
Sam’s voice is muffled. “Hmm, let me check my watch…it’s dicks-thirty, quarter past  _go fuck yourself._ ”  
  
“That doesn’t even make sense.”  
  
Sam turns to look at his brother and stubbornly shakes his head no. “I’m not getting up.”  
  
"You sure?" Dean gestures at the still-sizzling pan with a spatula. "Because I make a mean egg, if I do say so myself."  
  
The smell wafts its way down. Sam's stomach growls loudly.  
  
 _Traitor._  
  
He stands and crosses over to the stove, plate in hand and ignoring the way Dean decided to borrow Sam's clothes without asking and the way he looks in the too-big pants (they ride  _way_  too low on his hips, and Sam's just making a note to inform Dean of it. Later).  
  
Dean's face as he expertly flips an omelet onto Sam's plate is too smug for its own good.  
  
"Eat up, princess. Big day ahead." Dean smiles wide—fucking shit-eating grin—and stretches, exposing a strip of flesh that Sam distinctly remembers tasting the night before.  
  
He carefully labels the feeling in his stomach as hunger, and tells his dick to shut up.  
  
 **iii.**                                                                                                              
  
The next time they pass through Scottsdale, Sam borrows the Impala and drives back to the lonely clearing in the desert.  
  
He upturns the ground remains of a dog he and Dean found lying by the side of the road, and waits. The image of the Greek goddess is strangely comforting in its familiarity and Sam stands to greet her with a smile.  
  
“Samuel.”  
  
“Hey, Hecate.”  
  
“I must admit, I’m a little surprised that you’ve come back to visit.”  
  
“I just—had a question. It’s been bothering me for a while.”  
  
“Fire away.”  
  
“Aren’t you usually at three-way intersections?”  
  
“Yeah. So?”  
  
“This is a four-way.”  
  
She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t exactly going to pass up the biggest crossroads in the US for my headquarters, you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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>  01\. The idea for this story came about when I learned that prostitutes in South London used to be called either "single women" or "Winchester geese"—a reference to the Bishop of Winchester, who licensed these women to work in an area in Southwark called the Liberty of the Clink.
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> 02\. Getting syphilis was, accordingly, referred to as getting "bit by a Winchester goose".
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> 03\. Hecate is the Greek goddess of magic (including necromancy), sorcery/witchcraft, and crossroads, often shown holding two torches or a key. She is commonly accompanied by dogs and was worshipped as a protector of households and childbirth. She holds sway in the Underworld as well as over the seas, the earth, and the heavens. Her triple-image and three faces mean she can tell the past, the present, and the future.
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> 04\. Long bulletpoint short: having Hecate write herself into this story was an opportunity for me to use my stupidly vast knowledge of Greek mythology.
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> 05\. The real-life Aleister Crowley actually had a role in popularizing Hecate’s role as ‘the maiden, the mother, and the crone’. He also named his kid after Hecate. Said kid’s full name was ridiculously long to the point where they all just called her by the last of her myriad first names—Lilith.
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> 06\. The Four Corners Monument is (to be precise) 1,807 feet east of where modern surveyors believe the actual Quadripoint is. However, a spokesperson for the U.S. National Geodetic Survey defended the monument. He said, and I misquote, that the location was "phenomenal" and "spot-fucking-on" for the instruments that surveyors used back in the day.
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> 07\. This story is actually only 24,463 words without the deleted scenes. It'd probably be even less if I took out all the times the boys say 'bitch', haha, but that's my own little poke at the show.
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> 08\. I wrote those deleted scenes to fulfill my own selfish needs to have certain things happen. Such as Dean wearing Sam’s clothes and stalking Sam to a coffee shop and mouthing Sam’s order along with him. The Hecate scene was to explain not using a Y-intersection to any other mythology junkies out there.
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> 09\. A very long time ago, a lovely lady named Aline read my first draft (consisting of Karma's character, a two-page outline, and a quarter of a sex scene). She cheered me on, held my hand, and told me it didn't suck. This story is dedicated to her, because without her, it wouldn't exist.


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